


Hammer & Skull

by seikaitsukimizu



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, NCIS, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), Young Avengers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Character Death, Corruption, F/M, M/M, Marvel Universe Big Bang, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seikaitsukimizu/pseuds/seikaitsukimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In modern New York City, the the local SHIELD (Strategic Homeland Investigation, Enforcement, and Litigation Department) office responds to a call-out to investigate the death of an officer at Hammer Laboratories. Lead by Special Agent Phil Coulson, this SHIELD squad delves into the hostile history of the victim, as well as the seedy side of corporate espionage and the tense atmosphere of government-funded research.</p><p>With so many enemies, however, narrowing it down to just one suspect is no easy chore. And as the pool of suspects diminishes with each alibi, matters take a turn for the worse as a civilian and one of SHIELD's own is kidnapped! With a reluctant FBI agent and an on-the-run CIA operative providing the only clues, it's up to Agent Coulson's team to find the missing people before the suspect not only escapes, but kills the hostages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer & Skull

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Avengers/NCIS fusion. Familiarity of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and television show is recommended, but not required to enjoy this story. 
> 
> Please be sure to check out the [Cover Artwork by Seven Corvus.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1009680)
> 
> Warning: This story includes off-screen deaths of major characters, explicit violence, political and law enforcement corruption.

It was late—or early depending on how one defined the night—and the atrium of Hammer Labs was dimly lit, save the full moon shining through the bullet-proof glass ceiling. The edges of the structure were a fertile green, planters filled with ferns and ivy in a shallow attempt to mimic a lush park in the cement forest. The center of the floor had a neatly cut square, the marble floors ending with a small divot into dirt and moss, from which an oak tree stretched three of the four stories tall.

During the day it offered shade, a haven from the cubicles and offices and labs. At night, with the moon aglow and blue lights reflecting off the fountain outside, it was the perfect cinematic atmosphere for romance.

However, at two-thirty in the morning, General Thaddeus Ross saw none of that. A senior man, his distinguished white cropped hair matched his neatly trimmed mustache. It granted him the initial appearance of a grandfatherly figure. His immaculate posture and flinty expression, however, spoke of a man with authority, dignity; someone not used to being questioned or kept waiting.

Dressed in full Army uniform regalia, it was obvious he had just come from a last-minute meeting at the Pentagon. Despite the serene essence of the location, his glare was solely focused upon the expensive watch-face that was endlessly ticking by on his wrist. His face burned red as his fist clenched. “Where the hell,” he growled, before storming to the nearest planter and slamming his briefcase down on the edge.

With swift, economical movements, he’d pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed his contact. “Where the hell are you?!” Despite the clandestine appearance of the situation, the man didn’t bother to keep his voice quiet, letting his anger echo around the atrium. “We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago!”

He never heard the reply, or the frantic calling of his name. A metallic hum whistled by his ear before the left side of his skull was struck by what felt like a metric ton. His neck snapped around, his vision already gone as he collapsed over the ferns.

The last thing he heard was a soft, contented melody of a familiar voice.

At his feet, in a beam of moonlight, rested the murder weapon. 

* * *

Naval Criminal Investigative Services was a remarkable agency, one that had an eighty-seven percent successful closure rate for all crimes related to the Navy. Then the trouble with the Air Force began, and then the Army. Story after story of failure to report crimes, failure to prosecute, favoritism and blatant violations of the uniform codes leading to unsafe, dangerous working environments. Not even the Coast Guard was immune, its senior officers becoming editorial fodder and a source of senatorial outrage.

The uproar was titanic.

No one knows who came up with the idea. To read the news, it was a league of senators standing up to the Joint Chiefs and putting their foot down. Conspiracy theorists, on the other hand, spoke of backroom deals and blackmailing the highest echelons of government. One tabloid even accused Odin Alfather, then Secretary-General of the United Nations, of threatening to call in the United States’ debt if they didn’t clean house.

Regardless of the origins, orders came down from on high, and a year after the signing of the legislation, the Strategic Homeland Investigation, Enforcement, and Litigation Department—colloquially known as SHIELD—became the civilian investigative and legal division of all military branches.

“I’m just saying,” Clint Barton said as he stepped off the elevator, “you’d think they could’ve sprung for a new paint job when they changed titles.” The man was fairly tall, just short of six feet, with dirty blond hair deliberately styled to appear tousled and rakish. His daredevil grin and the bounce in his step easily drew attention away from his blue-grey sharp eyes. The clothes were deceptively casual, but the trained investigator easily recognized the faux wear in his jeans, the way his black button-down was made of higher-than-standard quality, and the three knives hidden in his boots and belt.

His backpack, a battered purple number, appeared more authentic than the man himself. He dropped the bag by his desk, one of four in the center of the floor with mirrored flat-screen televisions and a large window view. “I mean, this blinding orange is bound to give someone eyestrain.”

Natasha Romanov, his partner and liaison from the Russian Federation’s Federal Security Bureau, veered off to her own desk across from Clint and rolled her eyes. Unlike her partner, her attire was stylish yet practical. The grey jeans had enough room to easily run in and hide five blades in immediate reach. The shirt, a deep maroon with subtle stripes, kept the autumn chill at bay whilst giving her the appearance of height, though she was barely taller than five feet.

Her hair, slightly curled, was a brilliant red and cut shoulder-length for a recent op. Its color highlighted the bone-white tone of her skin and the merciless glint of her green eyes, yet sitting behind her desk that dangerous edge vanished and she appeared as just another office drone; a testament to her overseas training and skill. Leaning back in the chair, she folded her hands together. “As if violet is any less of an eyesore.”

“Purpureus,” he said emphatically, “is not only the epitome of manliness, it evokes a strength and subtle authority that a respectable agency, such as ours, commands.” He shot a toothy grin to the desk at his right. “Don’t you agree, Probie?”

The man, Bruce Banner, slipped his own sling bag onto the top of a small bookcase and shook his head. Compared to his companions he appeared formal, wearing neatly pressed khakis with a starched celery-green dress shirt. His jacket, a tweed brown, was more commonly associated with universities than law enforcement, and he placed it carefully upon the hangar he’d installed shortly after being hired. His coffee-colored hair seemed precisely styled into coifed subtly, though in truth it simply fell that way naturally. His eyes were wide, appearing guileless, but the slight twist to his mouth bespoke of a man without naiveté.

It was obvious he managed his appearance to hide himself, to deliberately make people overlook him; yet the tanned, muscled forearms hiding just beneath his sleeves made it obvious he was not an easy target. Switching on his computer screens, he glanced absently at the empty desk across from him. “Actually, Barton, shades of purple are often used when teaching children of feminine gender roles and enjoyable activities.”

Natasha snorted. “No wonder Clint likes it.”

“Hey,” Clint nimbly skipped out of his seat to lean against the file cabinet beside Bruce, “purple is the sign of royalty, nobility-“

“Inbreeding.”

Clint stuck out his tongue at Natasha.

“Let’s not forget magic.” Clint and Natasha raised their eyebrows as Bruce typed on his keyboard. “For ages wizards and magicians have been associated with purple.” He smirked at them.

Clint smirked back. “You would know, Elf Lord.”

By now, Bruce had come to like the nickname. “I’m just saying it’s a complicated color. Though,” he mused, eyeing his screen again, “it also represents mystery. Appropriate, in our line of work.”

“Speaking of,” Phil Coulson, their team leader said while walking in from the back of the staircase situated behind Clint and Bruce’s workstations, “we have a new one for the day.” His voice was quiet but authoritative, the contradiction much like the man himself. He moved with purpose, his dark suit neatly pressed despite his speed, his movements economical as he picked up his weapon from the drawer in his desk.

The others automatically gathered their own belongings in a less ordered, frantic manner. “What’s the mystery today, boss?” Despite the serious tone, Clint was grinning as he shouldered his bag.

“General in the Army found dead at Hammer Labs.” The three fell into step behind Phil as he briskly walked towards the elevator.

“No attempt to hide the body or the service branch? Not much of a mystery,” Clint commented.

Phil waited until the lift was full before pressing the button for the garage. “Except for why the killer left the weapon there.”

* * *

Unlike the night before, the atrium was now a bustling hive of activity. Stark yellow and black police tape cordoned off the planter along with half the floor by wrapping around the central tree trunk thrice securely. The General’s body, still unmoved, was draped with a white plastic sheet that did nothing to hide the blood dried on the evergreen-shaded marble. It absolutely failed to shield the military man’s final slumped position from the prying eyes of lab technicians, security guards, and even the wayward gawkers looking in through the wall of windows.

Theodore Odinson—Thor to his friends—lifted the sheet briefly to examine the head wound. With muscles like a body builder, a sun-kissed tan, and shoulder-length blond hair he looked more like a surfer than SHIELD’s lead medical examiner. A native of Denmark, he stood head and shoulders above everyone, and though he looked like a young man in his thirties, the crinkles around his sea green eyes and the laughter lines suggested he was more advanced in years than he appeared at first glance.

“See here, Mister Rogers.” Kneeling on the ground, Thor brushed his white lab coat back to raise the stiff hand of the victim. “This hand is undamaged, with neither defensive wounds nor indications of a struggle.”

On the other side of the body, the medical examiner’s assistant, Steve Rogers, pulled the other arm out a bit. “The same over here, Doctor Odinson.” Unlike Thor’s staccato baritone, Steve’s voice was firm yet completely deferential. The youngest member of Agent Coulson’s SHIELD team, he’d grown from the gangly ex-USO stagehand to a muscled twenty-something thanks to his time pushing gurneys and hauling body bags around. He had kind blue eyes and shining, perfectly combed golden hair. “How could someone not see that,” he nodded to the floor, “coming?”

On the floor, not a foot away from the General’s right knee, rested what appeared to be a sledgehammer standing on its head. The grey metal block was stained with blood and grey matter, and its wooden handle seemed incomplete at a half-yard length. The wood shined as if newly varnished, and the metal not obscured by organic residue was bright and clean. It looked ready to be lifted like a proverbial sword from the stone.

Thor started checking the pockets of the General’s uniform. “Quite easily, actually. Did you know, mallets and war hammers have a rich and extensive history, employed just as easily by spies as by warriors?” He handed the keys and wallet to Steve, who placed them in a plastic bag. “The most familiar and well-known, however, is the mighty Mjolnir, wielded by the God of Thunder in Norse mythology; made most popular by the comic book hero named-“

“Thor,” Phil’s voice was quiet, but still easily interrupted the doctor’s lecture.

“That’s correct, Phillip,” he said grinning at the man in the suit. “Great Mjolnir, wielded only by the righteous to strike down Frost Giants and his duplicitous brother-“

“Thor,” there was exasperation as well as fondness in the sigh, “what about the body?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. The General was most likely caught off-guard.” He held up the hand again.

“No defensive wounds. Cause of death?”

“Ostensibly, blunt force trauma to the head, though I’m not ruling out breakage of the cervical vertebrae.” Thor didn’t lift the sheet for that. “The weapon is fairly obvious, but I won’t have details until he has been thoroughly examined back at SHIELD.”

“Do we have a time of death?”

“Mister Rogers?”

Steve smiled awkwardly at Phil and held up the digital liver probe. “Liver temp indicates he died somewhere between two and three am.” He held up a plastic bag. “They left keys and a full wallet, sir.”

Phil nodded, and glanced up as the rest of his team approached, loaded with boxes and cameras. “Barton, I want photos of the crime scene. Romanov, check the security cameras and find if there are any witnesses. Banner, confirm the identity of the victim.” He pulled a latex glove out of his pocket before taking the bag from Steve to dig out the wallet. “Let’s find out who’ll be breathing down our necks over his death.”

“Sir,” Natasha and Clint said in unison, breaking apart from the group. Bruce just set the forensics kit down and dug around for the fingerprint scanner.

Special Agent Phil Coulson stepped back and surveyed the area, snapping the glove on. With sunglasses and a cap emblazoned with ‘SHIELD’ he appeared as just another agent, a subtle smile and relaxed posture portraying an illusion that allowed him to have eyes and ears on the entire atrium.

Those senses quickly focused on Bruce when, as he lifted the plastic, he let out a sharp gasp. In two steps Phil was beside the agent. “Banner?”

“I know him. This, this is General Ross.” He barely swallowed the resentment.

Pulling his glasses off, Phil’s eyes crinkled as he looked over the damaged skull. “Are you sure?”

Bruce nodded. “Thaddeus Ross. While I was at MIT, I dated his daughter.” There was agony in his voice. “He didn’t approve, especially when I refused to let the Department use my thesis to refine the nuclear capability of weapons research.”

Phil touched Bruce’s shoulder briefly. “It’s alright, Bruce. Do you need Clint to confirm-“

“No.” He swallowed. “No, yes, I can do it.” He took the cold hand and pressed the thumb against the digital scanner. It took less than thirty seconds for the device to return General Ross’ name and stern picture. There was another sigh, tinged with just a touch of relief. Phil slipped the wallet out of the bag, and matched the driver’s license image to the one on the scanner.

Steve shifted away, heading to the glass doors to fetch a gurney. Slipping the billfold back into the bag and sealing it, Phil waited until Thor turned away as well before he lowered is voice. “He chased you away.” It wasn’t a question.

Bruce just squatted back on his haunches, staring at the digital photo. The ambient noise swallowed the awkward silence. “I’m not too close, boss,” he finally admitted. “I was just surprised.”

Phil squeezed his shoulder as Steven came back with the gurney and a black bag. “Good.” He waited until Bruce was standing again before nodding to the car. “I’ll ride with Thor. You head back, get some leads on the General’s current work and the contact information for-“

“Betty,” Bruce finished. He shut his eyes and took a deep calming breath through his nose. He repeated the exercise twice. When he opened them again, he matched Phil’s gaze. “I’ll have it ready for when you arrive, sir.”

He strode off at Phil’s nod, and the agent turned to Clint, who was taking discreet pictures of the crowd. “Barton,” he barked, “what’ve you got?”

Clint jogged over and met him right next to the murder weapon. “Banner okay?” Phil just raised an eyebrow and waited. “Right,” he let his camera hang by its strap and started pointing around the room. “Security cameras are angled to watch the doors into the atrium and the connected buildings. He waves at the planter and tree. “The rest of the place is one big blind spot.”

“Unfortunate.”

Clint snorted and nodded to the doors. “Security clearance is required after hours, but during the day anyone can get in. Text from Tasha says there’s a regular security patrol every three hours.”

“So no one could wait in hiding.” His own gaze darted around the place. “What about-“

“The tree, yeah, I thought about it, but the branches aren’t strong enough to hold the weight of Mjolnir, let alone a person.”

Another eyebrow raised. “Mjolnir?”

Clint’s grin was wide. “It’s appropriate. And how awesome is it that we got a hammer to our Thor?”

“We had this discussion on naming things, Barton.”

“Like that’s useful,” Natasha called as she ducked under the police tape barricade. “With him it’s like talking to a mall.”

Steve, rolling the body by on the gurney, paused and furrowed his brow while glancing at her. “Wait-“

“Wall,” Clint interrupted. “Talking to a wall. And you weren’t invited to this conversation.”

“I’m always invited,” she shot back, elbowing her teammate not-so-gently before facing her superior. “Everything’s digitalized and backed up during the night.” Her right eye twitched. “There was a…disruption last night that interfered. All footage between two and four is gone.”

“The security guard?”

“Claims he stepped away from the monitors for five minutes to grab lunch.” She shrugged. “I didn’t get the sense he was lying, he seemed to be in as much shock as anyone else.”

Phil didn’t bother to question her evaluation. Reading people was one of her best skills. “Witnesses?”

“None.” She took a moment to glance around the room. “Besides the night guard Mister Schmidt, four people were logged in according to the system at that time.” She flipped open her notebook. “Doctors Jane Foster, Erik Selvig, and Nathaniel Richards. Lieutenant Melinda May, Air Force.”

“Right. Barton, go with Romanov for interviews.”

“Great, getting to talk to the brains.” He slipped on a set of sunglasses and watched Steve carefully wrap the sledgehammer in plastic and lift it with little effort. “Sure I can’t join Banner-“

“No.” Phil set his own glasses on and scanned the atrium one last time. “Have Schmidt send the digital recordings, though. Maybe Stark can clean up the disruption.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint said, taking a quick picture of Phil in profile. “Anything else?”

Observing the SHIELD forensic team, Phil let his mouth flatten sternly. “Find his phone. It wasn’t with the body.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Or in the planter or tree well. Someone took it.” Both agents quickly scanned the crowds again. “Who found the body?”

“Schmidt, around three-thirty.” Natasha tucked her notepad away. “I’ll re-interview him. Make sure he doesn’t have icky fingers.”

“Sticky,” Clint said absently.

“Good. I’ll see you in an hour.” Phil turned on his heel and marched over to join Thor, his steps eerily silent on the tiled floor.

“An hour?”

Natasha shoved Clint’s shoulder. “Look sharp, Hawkeye. We’ve got work to do.”

“I never should’ve told you about my circus days,” he muttered and followed her towards the security office.

* * *

Lieutenant Melinda May, a liaison for the Department of Defense with Hammer Labs, was the exact same size and build as Natasha, save for her dark hair pulled in a ponytail and Chinese heritage. She held the same physical lethality and aura of mystique as the Russian agent, and the two spent minutes sizing each other up before speaking quickly in Arabic.

Clint, feeling extremely left out, decided to cross the hall and move down four doors to the break room, where the three scientists were supposed to be. Sticking his head in with a grin, he spotted two of his targets talking quietly over a series of scribbled equations on napkins. Jane Foster was the epitome of the typical absent-minded scientist with her blond hair barely under control and glasses askew. Her coat hid simple jeans and white blouse, but not the mismatched red and green socks.

The other was an older man and could be Richards or Selvig. He was the opposite of Foster’s energetic motions, moving stiffly and with more caution as his fingers travelled over the equations. Wearing a windbreaker and scarf even indoors, he looked more like he’d just walked in than spent the night in his lab. His hair was thinning in the front and he tensed momentarily before looking up. Clint got his answer to who this was with Jane’s confused, “Erik?”

Clint cleared his throat and she jumped. Their stares were emphasized by the bruising beneath their bloodshot eyes. “Special Agent Clint Barton,” he stepped into the room, showing the badge attached to his belt. “I just have a few questions regarding last night.”

Jane’s hands shook momentarily, but she hid it quickly by clutching the paper coffee cup. “General Ross. Poor man.”

“Terrible man,” Erik countered, brushing off Jane’s head jerk. “It’s no use hiding it, Jane. He was a bully who enjoyed using his authority for gestapo tactics, abusive censorship, and pseudo-blackmail.”

“It was fine,” Jane responded softly. “Mister Hammer never would’ve let it come to that.”

“Hammer is in the military’s pocket. He’s no more than their puppet.”

Clint glanced between the two of them. “You do know that sounds like motive,” he said scribbling notes, “right?”

Erik snorted. “Of course, me and the fifty other poor sods who had to answer to that blowhard.” He glared at his coffee. “Trust me, we’re not the only ones with motive.”

“And what, precisely, do you two do that matters to the General?”

“Advanced theoretical research,” Erik grumbled.

Jane reached out and held onto the man’s wrist. “It wasn’t what we did,” she said. “General Ross is—was part of the D-O-D’s finance committee. He helped decide which projects to keep and which to,” she swallowed, “to terminate.”

“And where were you on that evaluation,” he asked as neutrally as possible.

“We’re not authorized to know the status of Departmental appraisals,” Erik replied acidly.

“It was time for our annual review,” she spoke over her fellow doctor. “Mister Hammer was going to assess the projects this week.”

Clint nodded. “We’ll speak with him shortly.” He glanced back to the hall. “So you were here last night…?”

Jane sighed, finally letting go of her coffee so she could rub her eye with the heel of her left hand. “Our project was running a little behind. We were-“

“Trying to finish by the military’s unreasonable deadline and produce results meeting their draconian standards for evaluation.” Erik was glaring at Clint now. “Which we still have to complete. If we’re done.” He stood, his stance protective over his co-worker.

“Just a few more questions,” Clint started, but Natasha ducked under his arm and looked directly at Erik. “Natasha?”

“Doctor Nathaniel Richards,” she asked directly.

Both scientists’ appeared bewildered at the question. “No,” Jane said slowly, “No, Doctor Richards was let go last week.”

“Irreconcilable differences,” Erik continued at the same pace, as if thinking it over. “Security had to get involved.”

The red-head nodded once and turned, marching down the hall. Clint gave the couple a small nod before following his partner. “Doctor Richards was terminated last week,” he echoed to her.

She responded, “So how did he get into the building last night?”

* * *

“I have no idea why Nate would be here last night. We parted on amicable terms,” Justin Hammer, multimillion CEO of Hammer Labs continued his power walk, smiling widely as he nodded at the nearby lab assistants, teeth artificially shiny. “I’m certain it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding that may have resulted in a dead General,” Natasha said, easily keeping pace with the suited man.

It was grey and obviously expensive, a power suit, a show for the world. “And I’m deeply affected by the loss of our esteemed friend.” He lifted an iPad from the nearest desk and shifted through the screens, the graphs reflecting off the buddy-holly glasses. “Hammer Labs will cooperate fully with any investigation.” He set the pad down on another desk, the scientist blushing at his grin and picking up the device to study it.

“Then how about giving us your attention for a few minutes,” Clint half-yelled as he jogged just a bit ahead of the man and pressed his hand against Hammer’s shoulder. “Rather than treat this like a pesky PR meeting.”

As he stopped walking, Justin’s charming personality vanished, disdain obvious in his flat mouth and arrogant gaze. It disappeared just as quickly, the artificial cheer oozing off of him as he turned that blinding smile upon Clint. “Of course, anything to help SHIELD.” He waved to the trio of men in yellow clean-suits and stepped just off the main hallway.

Clint exchanged a look with his partner, who was eyeing the CEO’s dyed-blond hair as if it personally offended her. “Now,” he said less aggressively, “do you know why the General might’ve been here?”

“Not a clue,” he said, looking Natasha up and down. “He had clearance, though, and free reign. Well, except for my office. Only I and my...special guests,” he winked the Russian, “are allowed there.”

Clint barely hid his wince as she pulled out her own smile. Not the one for undercover work, the one that bared her teeth like a shark when new agents were foolish enough to challenge her during training. “Did he have an office?”

“I offered,” he said, glancing at Clint, back at the redhead’s grin, before deciding to keep his gaze firmly on the other man. “He was here often enough. He swore up and down his briefcase was enough. Well, and his attaché. Personal aide. Boy toy?” Justin hummed thoughtfully. “He was pretty enough to be, lord knows he wasn’t especially bright-“

“And what about Doctor Richards?” Natasha’s voice cut through his musings like a fine blade. “We know it ended badly.”

The façade finally wore down, smile becoming muted and eyebrows downturned as he let out a huff. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said, quickly reaching up to remove his glasses and rub them with a silk cloth from his pocket.

“Security had to escort him out,” Clint prompted.

“During the day, yes. But we met up later at the lounge, talked things through.” He shook his head once and placed his eyewear back on. “It was just the heat of the moment, that’s all.”

“What was the fight about?” She narrowed her eyes. “We can ask the guards-“

Justin held up his hands in a faux warding gesture. “It was a patent dispute. He’d developed coding protocols for tracking technology.” The salesman smile returned. “Revolutionary, really, able to pinpoint a mouse from space, or a soldier klicks away through lead shielding a hundred feet under the ground.”

“And…?” One slim red eyebrow raised inquiringly.

He shrugged. “And the contract he signed stipulated that all intellectual property while employed by Hammer Labs, even when off-site and off-hours, was ours.” He matched Tasha’s look with one of his own over the top of his glasses. “And ours alone.”

She frowned. “But it wasn’t a Hammer or D-O-D project.”

He waved that away. “Semantics. The contract was ironclad.”

“And you don’t think he’d break in to get it back,” Clint deadpanned.

“He didn’t need to.” He rolled his eyes. “We met up at a lounge,” he paused, “Falcon’s. He apologized, bought me a scotch, and we negotiated new terms.”

“Just like that?” Clint couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his tone.

“Nate’s a reasonable guy.” Justin crossed his arms. “It’s a very fair agreement. He gets a generous royalty, and we keep the technology for further R and D. All on the up and up.” Another shrug. “Besides, he flew out Saturday, straight to China to head up Kang Industries’ clean energy division.” He lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “A competing business, but at least it’s not Zola Cybernetics. Nate, at least, will keep them playing by the rules. Not like those French thieves.” He poked Clint’s chest. “ _That’s_ who you should be investigating.”

“We’ll get right on that.” Clint fought down the urge to roll his eyes or smack the bastard. Instead, he turned a page in his notepad. “But his card was registered with the system last night.”

“And we’ll be looking into why his access wasn’t revoked, we’re usually far better about things like that.” He glanced at his watch, something jewel-encrusted that was supposed to look sleek and elegant, yet fell just shy of gaudy. “Now, if you’ll pardon me—” the charm was dialed up to full power again, “—I have people to reassure. Death of a General tends to put scientists on edge.” He slapped Clint on the shoulder, glanced at Natasha, then power-walked away, not even once looking back.

Clint shook his shoulders. “I feel like I need ten showers.”

“I feel like breaking his collarbone.”

“In another life,” he retorted, steering her towards the door. “You think he’s telling the truth about Richards?”

Her steps became a little more forceful. “Unfortunately. He’s not stupid enough to lie about that.”

“Maybe Banner will have had better luck digging up a lead.”

* * *

“Thaddeus Ross,” Bruce said as he stood up, hitting the red button on his mobile mouse to project the man’s picture and service record on the main plasma. “Four-star General of the US Army, his family apparently traces active duty service all the way back to the Civil War.” He grimaced. “Union. Hard to believe.”

“Banner,” Phil reprised mildly.

“Right.” He clicked on the mouse and zoomed in on his history. “In Vietnam he gained the nickname Thunderbolt for his quick-strike tactics and impressive military leadership. He was one of the integral unit leads during the Tet Offensive. He also oversaw the Los Alamos Nuclear Research facility, then spearheaded efforts in Desert Storm, before overseeing another Nuclear Research facility in New Mexico until he became an advisor to Homeland Security.”

The other man easily read between the lines. “Never comfortable behind a desk or with scientists.”

“Got it in one. Still, with his distinguished service record, he quickly rose and gained four-star status five years ago. And then,” another click, this time the plasma zoomed in on an obvious reprimand, “The Abomination Affair.”

“I remember.” It was big news in the right circles. A General, in an effort to take down Bin Laden, had approached the number three man on the FBI, CIA, and then NCIS’ most wanted list. One terrorist to catch another, using American dollars and illegal scrubbing of criminal records. It resulted in an entire department being shut down, a dead terrorist, and one humiliated General.

“Well,” Bruce said with hesitation, “that’s good, because how he was involved is classified.”

“His mishandling of intel nearly got the NCIS agents on Abomination’s tail killed.”

“How do you know that?” Phil leveled a blank look at his agent. It took a few minutes for Bruce to remember that his boss and retired Agent Jasper Sitwell, now down in Mexico, were both rumored to have been on the legendary case. “Oh, right. Sorry, boss.”

Phil simply nodded, the small smile returning to his features. “Continue.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “It basically killed his active command career, and removed his name from a Cabinet-level position he was under review for. Instead, he was relegated to desk duty, overseeing classified projects funded by the D-O-D.”

“Warhorse put to pasture.”

“A warhorse with a temper.” Two more clicks, and another file came up, this one a set of lists and dates. “For the past five years, no less than sixty-three complaints have been filed by civilians over his treatment.”

“Including your own?” Bruce shook his head. “I’m not one to judge, Banner.”

“I, uh, didn’t think it would matter. Petty student complaining about his girlfriend’s father.”

Phil stepped over and squeezed his shoulder again. “It mattered, Bruce. Don’t let it shadow you now.”

Another long exhale, and he gave Phil an awkward smile. “Right.” He focused his attention back on the plasma. “It seemed to be worse this year, eleven complaints already pending investigation.”

“SHIELD agent in charge?”

“D-O-D was handling it internally.” The disgust at that was obvious in his tone. “Unfortunately, all but two of these scientists are in the tri-state area.” He waved at the map of New York City and its neighboring states. “Narrowing it down will be difficult.”

There was a quiet chime and Clint’s voice called out, “You can cross Nathan Richards off the list,” as he walked around the cubicles and dropped behind his desk. “Just spoke with customs, he left the country Saturday and our agents in Beijing confirmed his arrival.”

“It is a pity we cannot add Hammer to the list,” Natasha said, quickly disarming and packing her weapon away into a drawer, anger in every movement. “Not without more evidence,” she growled.

“Maybe he’ll embezzle and the IRS will catch him, like with Capone.” Clint chuckled. “Tax evasion, works every time.”

“I wish my agents did.”

“Yes boss, sorry boss,” Clint said, hopping back out of his seat. “The General was a bit of a blowhard, and those we spoke with-“

“He was not liked,” she interrupted, “except by security and Hammer.”

“Not surprising,” Bruce muttered, before nodding to the screen.

Clint let out a low whistle as the elevator rang again. “Damn. Selvig was right. He was an asshole.”

“Maybe,” a new voice intruded, the thick voice of a woman fighting tears, “that’s because they didn’t know him.”

They turned as one to the woman. She had long dark hair, green eyes that were currently puffy from crying, and the proud stance of a General’s child. She was clutching at her purse-strap, knuckles white as they twisted the brown leather, and her red skirt was a mess.

Bruce let out a shaky breath. “Agent Coulson, meet Betty Ross.”

* * *

The conference room upstairs was the same orange as the rest of the building, but the twelve-person table was varnished black with comfortable leather chairs. In addition to the plasma screen on the wall and a view of the courtyard out the opposing window, a cabinet held both a pitcher of water and a small coffee maker.

Bruce handed Betty a small glass of water before turning his back to brew some instant tea.

Phil sat diagonally from Betty at the table, a blank notepad and generic ballpoint pen laid in front of him. “Miss Ross, I apologize for the commentary downstairs.” His voice was utterly calm, neutral, and light.

“You should,” she sniped, but with little acid in her tone. “He was a good man, a proud man. Sometimes he was difficult, but he was a General. He had to be firm.”

“I know,” Phil completely agreed without condescension or placation in his tone. It was the same tone he used in his subtle interrogations, the one that led terrorists to tell secrets because they believed his sympathy, believed _him_.

Bruce chewed on his lip only once, and determinedly kept his back turned.

“Good,” she stuttered, then, “good,” again. After that, she seemed lost, staring at the condensation on the tabletop from her glass.

“I know this is a difficult time,” Phil started in the same empathic voice, “but do you think you’re up to answering some questions?” He took her limp hand and held it between his own, letting his warmth seep in. “We’ll be quick.”

“I…yes.” She curled her palm around his fingers. “Yes. Any, anything to help catch his…to find who did this.”

The subtle smile was back. “Thank you.” He withdrew his hands and picked up the pen. “Last night your father was at Hammer Labs, do you know why?”

She shook her head. “He had, he said he had a meeting with some federal departments, reviewing the budgets. To not wait up.”

Bruce sat down, gently pushing a steaming cup of tea towards her. “You still live with him?”

She didn’t reach for the drink. “Just during the separ—during the divorce.” She swallowed. “Major Glenn Talbot. Colonel now, I suppose.”

Bruce ducked his head and glanced away.

Phil tapped the tip of his pen against the paper. “Divorce?”

She let out a broken laugh. “I thought…he promised he’d be home a lot more. He’s not deployed. Except he’s just like my fath-“ she choked on the word. She had to take a sip of water before she could continue. “He was never home, always on base. I saw him maybe one weekend a month.” Another sip. “It’s been difficult. But dad,” her hands trembled, “dad…” The first tear was silent, but after that they just didn’t stop and she let out a subdued sob.

Phil leaned back and gave Bruce a small nod towards the woman. He stood a second later, gathering his notes.

Ignoring the part of him that knew it was a bad idea to let himself get close again, Bruce rolled his own chair over and budged up next to her, using one hand to hold onto her arm and the other to hand her some tissues. She took the offering and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine, really. You just lost…we’re thankful you even took the time. Considering…well,” he moved his hand from her wrist to her back, “I’m sorry this happened. It shouldn’t-“

“Bruce,” he quieted down at her wet whisper, “I kn-know. How you felt. H-how he treated you.” She grabbed the edge of his coat and looked him in the eye. “I know, but he wouldn’t…he was a good man. He didn’t deserve—he was harsh at times, but he was all I had left.”

Bruce nodded, remembering how Betty’s mother had died nearly a decade ago. “I know,” he said impotently, “and I know we won’t…we can’t fix it. But we will find whoever did this, bring them to justice.”

Her shoulders shook, and she reached up to brush her hair back. “I know. I, I know.” She twisted her wrist so she could clasp his hand. “We didn’t…I’m sorry. How it ended.” She offered him a broken attempt at a smile. “I’m g…it’s good it’s you. I trust you.” She tightened her grip. “I believe you can catch whoever…whatever monster killed him.”

Bruce gave her the most reassuring grin he had in his arsenal, and leaned forward to embrace her in a hug. She accepted it, letting a few more sobs escape into his shoulder. He stared at the black screen of the television on the wall, trying not to think of the last time they had been like this.

* * *

Phil watched as Bruce led General Ross’ daughter towards the elevator, letting her lean against him for support. He felt someone slip into the spot beside him, and merely blinked as the man crossed his arms. “Barton.”

“Good on Probie.” He could hear the smirk in Clint’s voice. “I knew that advice about grieving women would work. He’s just the sort of stable, quiet man they look for in times of-“ He flinched as Phil’s hand connected with the back of his head. “Sorry, boss.”

“Be respectful,” he said softly. “It’s bad enough she heard your commentary on her father.” Clint flinched again, though no head-slap was forthcoming. “Piss off Banner, and you’ll be sleeping in the basement.”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered, before heading back to his desk. Bruce returned moments later, a lost look upon his face. “You good, Banner?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Fine, Clint.”

“Good,” Phil said, taking a seat at his desk. “Now fill me in.”

Clint cleared his throat, and Natasha was by his side instantly. “That list of complaints is unfortunately classified, but with the names we have I’ll bet Banner can narrow down our pool of suspects by their cellphone GPS.” Bruce was already sliding behind his desk to follow Clint’s suggestion.

The redhead nudged Clint over a bit. “Hammer Laboratories, despite its questionable leader, has been a stable Defense Contractor for nearly a decade. However,” she glanced from side to side, “my sources indicate that the contract is up for renewal, and Ross was making intimations that they’d be switching over to Stane Industries.”

“Sources,” Clint snorted.

“Yes, sources. I have been cultivating quite a few, and renewing some that were previously obtained through…an alternate informant.”

Clint’s carefree attitude slipped away at that, even as Phil gave Natasha a firm nod of approval. It was well known that Natasha’s previous source and good friend had been Director Virginia Potts. The Director—Pepper to her friends—was a petite woman with killer heels and a blazing wit to match her fiery hair. She had been instrumental in the transition from NCIS to SHIELD, as well solidifying the firm relationship SHIELD shared with their Russian counterparts by bringing on Natasha. Losing her just seven months ago was still a physical ache within their close-knit agency. The only consolation is that they’d taken down the Mandarin Triad, and taken it down hard.

After an informal moment of silence, Phil gave Clint a pointed look.

With a quick shake, he picked up the mobile mouse and clicked it twice. “Hammer did mention one other possible suspect.” Ross’ file appeared on the screen, then shifted as paperwork for his personal staff appeared. “The General apparently was a difficult man to please. Over the last year alone he’s had ten personal aides.”

“A bit excessive,” Phil was examining the screen. “You think it may be one of the ones he fired?”

“Maybe even his current one. Hammer suggested he wasn’t very good at his job. Maybe he snapped?”

There was another pointed look. “Maybe.”

“I’ll definitely find out, boss. Got a call in to the Pentagon as we speak.”

Natasha snatched the mouse from his hand and triple-clicked the tracking wheel. The General’s file disappeared and Hammer’s personnel documents took up the projection. “Security isn’t sure who took Doctor Richard’s card, but he wasn’t the only one let go recently.” Another click, and three names were highlighted. “Doctor Pym was recently fired, as was another security guard, a Mister Lang, and the head of biotech IT, a Miss Van Dyne.”

“Details?”

“The reasons for dismissal on Pym is sealed, but Mister Lang suffered from a downsizing when Hammer’s stock took a brief plunge due to the rumors of Ross’ evaluation.”

“Funny,” Clint said, “our friendly CEO never mentioned that little detail.”

“Van Dyne’s departure reason is unlisted, but,” she dropped the mouse in Clint’s hand and held out a folder to Phil, “I found this in the public records.”

Phil quickly perused the contents. “Miss Van Dyne just divorced Doctor Pym.” He slapped the folder shut and handed it back. “Bring them in. Lang too, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Barton, I want those aides interviewed.”

Clint spun on his heel and made it to his desk in two quick strides. “Calling the Pentagon again.”

“Banner,” Phil called, waited a moment, and then repeated a little louder, “Banner!”

“Right boss,” Bruce said, snapping out of his computer fugue. “Sorry. I’m already reviewing those scientist complaints-“

“GPS,” Clint hissed, holding his hand over his phone’s receiver.

Bruce blatantly ignored him. “And am currently tracking their GPS locations.”

“Good.” Phil’s cellphone rang as he pushed away from his desk. “Coulson,” he answered, already walking towards the elevator. “I’ll be right down, Thor.”

* * *

“It just seems like a…a gruesome way to die,” Steve said, using a ladle to retrieve the General’s stomach contents. “Why kill with a hammer? Why risk the splatter, the chance that the first blow isn’t enough? There’s better ways to end a life.”

Thor paused in weighing Ross’ liver, raising his eyebrows through the plastic face-shield. “Better ways, Mister Rogers?”

Color quickly rose to the younger man’s cheeks, and he ducked his head. “I didn’t mean—that is, there is no good way—“

“I know what you meant,” the doctor said loud enough to speak over Steve’s nervous voice, just a touch of reprimand in his tone. He turned back to the scale after meeting Steve’s guilty eyes. “And the weapon of choice is not chosen for its forensic advantages. Many a warrior used war hammers to instill fear and intimidate their foes. It is still a common weapon for the enforcers of organized crime, much for the same purpose. One-point-four kilograms.”

Steve noted down the liver’s weight. “So it’s a psychological choice?”

“Very much so, Rogers,” Thor said with pleasure, carefully scooping the liver out of the metal basin. “To use such a visceral weapon is most likely an indication of personal anger or rage towards the General.”

The doors hissed open and Phil interjected, “Plenty of that to go around, Thor.”

“Then I’m afraid you will not like my news, my friend.” He held the basin out to Steve, who quickly took it from him and ducked his head. “Mister Rogers, please take those stomach contents up to Tony.”

This time Steve brightened a bit. “Sure thing, Doctor Odinson.” He sealed the plastic container, filled out the evidence tag, and ducked out the sliding metal doors.

Phil waited until the doors were sealed again before taking up the space Steve just vacated beside the body. He looked over the General, not a bit disturbed by the open chest cavity or pungent smell of decaying organs. “Any abnormalities?”

“None whatsoever. For a man of his advanced years, he was in excellent health. His heart,” Thor indicated another basin, “was as stalwart of a man half his age. The toxicology failed to identify any abnormalities within his bloodstream, and he was not a man to drink.” He picked up a probe and gently nudged a deflated lung. “The only indication of vice were minor lesions in the lining of the lungs, the sign of one who enjoys tobacco and other such substances. Though it appears he has not done so in a number of years.”

“In other words,” Phil said without any inflection, “no surprises. The sledgehammer was the cause of death.”

“Most certainly. Tony is completing a reconstruction, and I am awaiting the forensic team’s return with the rest of the General’s skull.” Said skull was currently shattered inward, the soft tissue of the brain, a pure grey mush, barely held within the cavity. “Unfortunately, there is little here to assist in narrowing your field of suspects, Phillip. Forensically speaking.”

A raised eyebrow is all that it took, and Thor was smiling again, walking to another autopsy table, this one filled with crime scene photos and personnel files on the General. Phil moved with him and looked over the evidence. “You said it was personal, someone who didn’t like Ross.”

“Almost certainly. While the sabotage of the security footage implies pre-meditation, the act itself is one of pure emotional release.” He pointed to the photos of the body. “Were it blind rage, the General would have had an opportunity to resist or fight back.”

“No defensive wounds,” Phil reiterated.

“Exactly.” He picked up another photo, this time of the murder weapon. “The choice of weapon speaks to the catharsis itself. Cold-blooded murder or mere revenge did not necessitate such a heavy object. To quote Steve, there are better ways to end a life.” He tapped the picture, his finger nearly puncturing the page. “The weight of the sledgehammer was the weight of their emotion, made manifest as it struck our victim.”

“Someone close to the General that represses their emotions.” Phil crossed his arms. “He worked in the Pentagon.”

“Ah hah,” Thor said, letting the picture drop back onto the table, “I believe we may rule out the majority of those he was in contact with.” He picked up one of the folders. “The background check conducted during his review for a Cabinet seat indicates he spent much of his downtime with the same officers he negotiated defense contracts with. These were like-minded men, lifelong military officers who preferred the battlefield to a desk. His partners, those he worked closest with, would prefer to shatter his career rather than his skull.”

Thor handed the folder over to Phil, who flipped through the official notes, noticing the redacted sections. “What about those he disagreed with?”

“He was a Four-star General. Few officers disagreed, although as you see on page thirteen, the lingering resentment of those parties was a potential vulnerability in his nomination.”

“Along with the civilian complaints,” Phil added.

“True, but given the location as well as the weapon, I don’t believe we’re dealing with someone in the military. There are too many potential variables, too few strategic advantages. All of his contacts in the Pentagon were high enough in the chain of command to know how to remove forensic evidence. And to plan an elaborate deception of this nature requires at least clearance to the Labs, which I doubt they had.”

Phil slapped the folder closed and set it over the photos. “So in your professional opinion we’re dealing with a civilian under pressure.”

“Indeed, enough pressure that this murder may be an anomaly for this individual. Unfortunately, this form of repression is far too common nowadays.” He shrugged. “I can offer no further assistance until additional evidence is obtained. Perhaps Tony will have had better luck with the weapon.”

“I was just on my way there,” Phil said, heading for the doors. “I’ll have Banner send you the psychological evaluations of our narrowed list.”

“Excellent! I have been suffering a dearth of periodicals for my evening perusal. I look forward to receiving the files.” Phil let a small smile appear as he shook his head, exiting the room without a further word. Thor picked up another picture of the crime scene. “Death by associated catharsis. Someone really should have mentioned the skills of honeyed words, General,” he spoke over his shoulder to the corpse. “Perhaps then your passing would have been less violent.”

* * *

The not-so-dulcet tones of AC/DC raged down the corridor all the way to the elevator, loud and angry and not even causing Phil a momentary pause in his step as he strode across the hall into the forensic lab and the den of Tony Stark, scientist extraordinaire. The man had five degrees, all relevant to his field of work, and was well-published and well-known in the crime-fighting world.

He was also Phil’s favorite agent, at least, according to Tony.

“Agent!” The man grinned, teeth perfectly straight, glowing white and blatantly framed by his goatee and thin mustache. His hair was black and naturally tousled, and his brown eyes reflected both mischief and a million synapses firing at once. Defying four regulations, he was currently wearing faded jeans and a stained grey shirt, a smudge of gun oil on his forearm and utter grime beneath his fingernails, visible even through the latex gloves. Though the same height and even same age, Tony exuded the youth of a vibrant twenty-something with his boundless energy and pinball thought-processes.

The lab itself was only slightly more ordered than the man in charge of it. Located underground, the top of the far wall had a window at the same level as the sidewalk, providing a sliver of natural light and easy view of the local foot traffic. The wall was bordered with lab equipment, refrigeration units, and one overly full bookcase. Two tables stood in the center of the room. One, made of steel, was towards the back by the door, and currently was covered with the General’s clothes, wallet, and other forensic materials from the scene.

The other table was more cobbled together, seemingly integrated with a half-dozen computer parts, displaying four screens and two keyboards. This equipment faced a large plasma screen mounted on the wall, which took up half the room. Though currently hidden behind a half dozen posters on the glass doors, the room behind the large television held Tony’s personal office, the weapons lab, a private chemistry cabinet, and of course, the emergency shower.

None of that had Tony’s attention at this moment, though. Bouncing on his feet, his beat-up sneakers unlaced and with at least three holes between the pair, Tony’s gaze instantly locked onto the giant orange cup Caf-Pow in Phil’s hands. “Awesome, Agent. You read my mind. Not that it’s such an easy thing, but you always seem to know when I have some news. Or when I’m thirsty. It’s astonishing, really, this synergy between us. I still say, a few electrodes and we could finally answer that ESP question-“

Phil simply stayed out of Tony’s reach, holding the drink hostage from the scientist. “What have you got for me, Stark?”

Letting out a dramatic huff, Tony pirouetted on his toes and strode towards the forensic table. “Fine, fine, work first, theory later. So!” His hands danced across the plastic-bagged evidence. “No strange fingerprints on his briefcase, coat, wallet, nothing.” He picked up the watch and wrapped the bagged item around his wrist, looking it over. “Nice, don’t you think?” He held out his arm, still grinning.

Phil snatched the watch and glanced at the back. “Anniversary gift,” from the wife, according to the calligraphy upon the casing.

“With a diamond inlay. Very stylish, and worth a few thou easy at a pawn shop.”

“Thor said it was probably personal, not random.” He set the watch back at the table.

“Not necessarily.” The smile dimmed a bit. “High muckity-muck General, right?” He waved over the table. “So where’s the cell phone?” He shook his head. “Guy like this, and no method of instant contact? I don’t think so.” With a bound, he was at the other table, typing at lightning speed. “I confirmed with the D-O-D that he had a BlackBerry and got the number.” A map of New York appeared on the screen. “A number that was active and in use at the time of the murder.”

Phil ignored the technical details and confirmed that the call was in the atrium where the man died. “So we may have a witness who heard the murder.”

“Maybe. The number he called is classified, but I’m working on it.” He nodded to one of the four screens, which appeared to be running thousands of numbers at once. “But the fascinating bit?” He bounced on his feet again, and shifted to his second keyboard. “The D-O-D sent a kill order to the BlackBerry, so no one without the right command could even turn it on.” His hands blurred once more.

“Standard procedure,” Phil said blandly. “Bruce has complained that it keeps us from tracking it, too.”

“Except,” he finished his hand dance with a flourish to the large screen, “it’s currently active and in use.”

Phil felt himself snap to attention at that. “Someone’s on a call?”

“More likely downloading all the juicy details of the files.” He slapped a post-it note on the agent’s lapel and gave the Caf-Pow another pointed look. Phil set it down on the desk, knowing the man didn’t like to be handed anything directly. “Speaking of juicy, I haven’t gotten to the paperwork in the briefcase, but I should by the time you get back.”

“See that you do.” Phil walked out of the room. A moment later he stepped back in. “Good work, Tony.”

Visibly brightening, Tony turned back to the evidence table and looked at the paperwork as one of the monitors let out a wailing beep. Over his shoulder he called, “I don’t want to hear it unless you’ve got that number deciphered.”

* * *

It turned out, Natasha was going his way, which Phil discovered when he found her car parked right in front of his. As he stepped out, he raised an eyebrow.

She raised her own back and nodded towards the house. “Pym’s residence.”

They exchanged a significant look, then fell into step as they approached the two-story brownstone, painted a faded yellow that made it stand out beside its less-pastel stained neighbors. A few steps from the door, they heard shouting.

At the sound of shattering glass, they both had their weapons out. There wasn’t any hesitation in establishing their silent rapport. They coordinated their movements perfectly, Phil up against the wall to the left of the door, Natasha standing before it, weapon already aimed. With the second crash, the redhead slammed her foot against the door, splintering the lock and slamming the door open. “SHIELD agents,” she shouted marching in, gaze darting around the room.

The yelling immediately went silent, and then, “Goddamn, you called the cops?!” The man’s voice had a hint of a Boston accent, anger obvious in his tone.

“Like I’d call cops when I’m about to kill you! You selfish—“ responded the vitriolic voice of a New Jersey woman.

“Selfish?! You’re the whore!” Another crash followed that accusation. “Can’t handle the truth?!”

“Truth?! Like you were so faithful with those little-“

Phil and Natasha had lowered their weapons, though only Phil had holstered his, as they stepped into the dining room. It was almost cliché, the ex-couple glaring across the rectangular wooden table, crystal and ceramic shards scattered around both their feet, faux flowers and branches mixed in to add color to the oak floor.

Dressed in a midriff and leather jeans, Janet van Dyne was a petite five foot nothing with burning cyan eyes, a sharp nose, and a pixie haircut that only emphasized the sneer on her lips. She already had another candleholder in her hand, and Phil took two long strides over to snatch it away from her. “That’s enough,” he barked, glaring at the two scientists.

“Finally!” Henry Pym, on the other side of the room, pointed at his ex-wife. “Get this harpy out of my house!”

“Your house,” she screeched.

“I said that’s enough.” Phil didn’t raise his voice, but the firm tone seemed to penetrate the emotional haze between the couple. It was one skill Natasha continued to admire in the man, the way he could command a room no matter the situation with nothing but a few words.

An awkward silence descended as the two scientists seemed to realize the situation the two officers had stumbled upon. Janet’s boots crushed some of the glass beneath her feet as she shifted uncomfortably.

Henry Pym, on the other hand, had stiffly crossed his arms. Where Janet was put together, the other scientist had let his blond beard transform from fine stubble to a grungy, dirty look that only brought out the bruises under his eyes. In sleepwear and a threadbare t-shirt, he looked every bit the maligned mad scientist. “What are you doing here,” he finally ground out.

“Investigating a homicide,” Phil replied, his tone unwavering from the one he’d used earlier. “There was a death at Hammer Labs.”

Janet’s attitude vanished as she bit her lip for all of a minute. “Who was it?”

“General Ross.” Phil glanced at both of them as Tasha pulled out her phone. “Considering the animosity-“

“We both left over a week ago,” Henry said tersely. “We haven’t been back since, and certainly haven’t had any contact with the General.” A Sousa march emphatically blared from Henry’s pocket, and his hand quickly clamped down on the offending sound.

“That’s very interesting,” Natasha said, keeping an eye on the man from under her eyelashes. “Considering his phone is in your pocket.” The scientist opened and shut his mouth, but no sound would come out. Natasha walked behind him, pulling out her handcuffs. Once he was restrained, she pulled out the General’s BlackBerry. “Oh look,” she held up the screen for Phil to see the remote download in progress, “someone’s been a busy boy.”

* * *

Clint wasn’t able to get the General’s latest driver delivered to SHIELD headquarters, but he was at least given his itinerary for the day. The man was driving around a two-star General and his entourage. It wasn’t hard to catch up with them outside the United Nations, though the General gave him a sour look. Not at being a SHIELD agent. No, it was worse than that.

Clint grinned. “Rhodey! How’ve you been?”

“If Tony blew up your car again-“

“Agent Coulson would skin him alive if anything happened to Lola.” Rhodey, or rather, General James Rhodes, was a college friend of Tony’s from the man’s MIT days. He sported the traditional crew cut and kept himself at attention. Though they were the same height, the breadth of his shoulders and air of authority made him appear to tower over the SHIELD agent.

“Then what can I do for you, Agent?” He didn’t look at his watch, but he didn’t need to. Behind him, the lovely model-esque Carol Danvers, blond hair billowing in the wind, was doing it for him, and piercing Clint with a pointed glare every ten seconds.

“Fortunately,” he said, still grinning, “I’m after your driver.” He slapped the man on the shoulder twice. The muscle was still solid as iron beneath the uniform. “You go and schmooze with the big wigs. I’ll catch you at Tony’s next bash.”

With a perfunctory nod, Rhodey’s polished shoes echoed loudly in the parking structure. Carol pointed at her eyes, then at him, before falling into step behind the General, muttering about the Prime Minister of Wakanda. Clint simply shook his head, still smiling. “Like a machine in that uniform,” he chuckled.

Stepping around the hood of the black SUV, he found himself face-to-face with his target. Captain Teddy Atlman, sporting the same all-American looks as Steve, save for the age, and the extra muscles. “Captain,” he held out his hand, “Special Agent Clint Barton of SHIELD.”

The Captain removed his hat, tucked it under his arm, and took the offered hand. “What can I do for you, sir?” He even had the same earnest tone as Steve. It was eerie.

“General Ross.” He pulled a notebook and pen out of his breast pocket. “You were his last driver.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded once. “The driver previous was deemed unsuitable.”

“And you?”

A flinty steel emerged in his blue eyes. “Perfectly suitable, until I wasn’t, sir.”

“Don’t need the sir bit,” Clint said. “So what happened?”

Tension quickly crept into the young man’s shoulders. “The General had very firm opinions.”

“Generals tend to.” He raised his eyebrow. “Captains usually either go along or keep quiet.” He flipped back a couple pages. “And they almost certainly don’t get shifted to another General because they ask.”

The soldier’s gaze looked past Clint for a moment, and then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an iPhone. After a few thumb movements, he held it out. “This was the reason, sir.”

Plucking the phone from his hands, Clint examined the picture presented. Teddy was there in full uniform, a look of pure adoration and awe on his smooth features. Beside him, in a crimson—seriously crimson—tuxedo was a whipcord man with spikey black hair and glowing smile. Their hands were clasped in such a way that both of them were showing off their wedding bands.

After a moment, Teddy cleared his throat. “His name’s Billy. And right after it was safe for me to come out…well, we’d waited so long, and it’s legal in New York-“

“The General felt strongly about gays in the military,” Clint said bluntly, handing the phone back. “Let me guess, a few disparaging comments, followed by a call to SHIELD legal division?”

“Your Mister Parker is exceptionally efficient when he isn’t rambling.” A smile was finally creeping across the Captain’s face.

Peter Parker was the latest in a long line of lawyers Clint knew, and the first one to withstand the full force of Agent Coulson’s annoyance and not buckle. He was young and, at times, painfully shy, but Clint had seen him eviscerate defense attorney arguments with practically guerilla tactics. He wasn’t the speed-talker that Pietro was, but then, despite his motor-mouth, the white-haired lawyer often capitulated to Phil’s glare.

With a brief shake of his head, Clint jotted down some quick notes. “So you reported the discrimination, and what happened?”

The smile melted away immediately. “The General had a few choice words about ‘my kind’ and…well, I may have growled, sir.” He stuck out his chin. “I did not threaten him, though. If he’s reporting that-“

“He’s not reporting anything, Captain. He’s dead.” Clint glanced up, caught the way the Captain’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the way his mouth shut with a click. “I’m guessing last night you were in bed with your husband?”

His nod seemed to be instinctual, and then he shook his head. “No, sorry. I mean, yes, I was, but not our bed. My brother-in-law came into town and we ended up at this Senator’s party…” At another pointed look, he straightened the hem of his jacket. “Yes, I was with Billy. In a guest room.” He grimaced. “From the look of him, Tommy’d been up all night, so he would’ve seen if I’d left.” He held out his hand. “I can give you their numbers, so you can check.”

Clint handed over the notebook and glanced around, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Cool.” He waited a beat. “I’m guessing if I asked you who’d want to kill the General, you’d have a list a mile long?”

Wrinkling his nose, Teddy let out a sigh. “Unfortunately. He had a tendency to rub scientists the wrong way.” He handed the pad and pen back. “CEOs, too.”

“Oh?”

Teddy nodded. “Justin Hammer, of Hammer Labs? I think he actually threatened the General when he said he was cutting all funding to weapons R and D.”

Both of Clint’s eyebrows raised at that. “I thought the General had to evaluate the projects.”

Teddy snorted. “The General had decided to pull the plug on Hammer after a few meetings with Obadiah Stane.” Teddy glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Not to speak ill of the dead, sir. But,” he swallowed, “well, I don’t think…it’s just a feeling-“

“Spit it out, Captain,” Clint encouraged gently.

He took a measured breath. “I didn’t…I don’t try to eavesdrop, but I’m a driver. Sometimes you hear things. Stane mentioned something about a Congressional run.” Another hesitation. “I think he was offering to fund Ross, sir. Or secure a bribe for some contract.”

“The General didn’t have any political plans.”

Teddy shrugged. “I didn’t hear all of it. It just sounded…I don’t know. Guys like Hammer and Stane, though? They seem a bit...”

“Shady,” Clint finished. “Right.” He tucked his notes away and slapped Teddy on the arm like he did with Rhodey. “Thank you, Captain.” He grinned. “And congrats on the nuptials.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” His grin was wide and beaming, and a bit contagious, as Clint found himself smiling all the way back to the car.

* * *

Under the fluorescent lights of the interview room, Henry Pym’s distress and exhaustion was even more obvious, his skin washing out as he slumped in the chair. His right foot was shifting nervously, but otherwise he wasn’t moving, just staring at the plastic square table before him. He was a man at the end of his rope, only to discover it’d been cut moments ago.

The wet suction sounds of a straw hitting the bottom of a disposable cup jerked Steve out of his study of the man on the other side of the mirror. “Tony,” he hissed.

Tony, sitting at the computer by the recording equipment, shook the Caf-Pow with a disappointed frown on his face. “What? Guy’s gotta get a caffeine boost before he does a cursory on someone’s phone. It’s like popping some E before sex.”

Steve’s eyes widened as he stepped back, his full attention now on the scientist. “You haven’t.” His tone was somewhere between accusatory and pleading.

Tony spun in his seat. “Someday, Cap, someday I’m going to show you to how live.” He snapped. “I got it! Bachelor party!” His grin was wide and just the far side of leering.

“I, you,” he sputtered. “I’m not getting married soon.”

He shrugged in response, still grinning. “So? Don’t need a wedding to enjoy jello wrestling and herbs of a dubious nature.”

“We keep telling you, Stark,” Natasha said, stepping out from behind Steve, “you’re not allowed to corrupt or break our ex-USO Captain.”

With an exaggerated pout, Tony let his shoulders fall. “You never let me have any fun. Also,” he pointed at her, “I was facing the door. It didn’t open. How’d you get in here?”

Unlike Tony’s grin, hers was that of a predator who would enjoy chasing its meal. “If you’d like to know, I can visit you tonight. While you sleep. All alone in that empty penthouse.”

“Visiting? Who’s got time for visiting?” He spun in his chair again, picking up the evidence bag and slipping the BlackBerry out. “Oh look, evidence. Let’s see what recent activity has happened.” Wires seemed to appear from nowhere as he hooked the device to his tablet.

Turning to face the mirror, Natasha rested her hands behind her back and raised a singular eyebrow in Steve’s direction.

Still tossing Tony the occasional glance, Steve also turned back to the room. He crossed his arms, his palms slapping silently against his elbows, before he cleared his throat. “I thought,” he started, then gazed at Tony again. His cheeks started to glow. “I thought I’d study the suspect. I’m not so bad academically, but whenever Doctor Odinson questions me in the field, I tend to,” he studiously avoided eye-contact with both agents, “freeze up.”

Natasha didn’t react, but Tony let out a snort.

“Psychology is harder than it looks,” Steve ground out.

“Oh, no question. Me,” not looking up from his work, Tony waved his arm in the air, “I don’t get people. I mean, seriously. Half the time we’re having a pleasant conversation and then,” he snapped, “they get all prissy and storm off. Color me baffled.”

This time, Natasha let out a snort.

“I heard that,” Tony called back. “And Capsicle, don’t worry. You’ll be out of the metaphorical ice in no time—hah!” He ran his fingers over the screen, then unplugged everything and returned the device back to the bag. “I’ve got to get this to Agent.” He hopped out of his seat and left the room in the blink of an eye.

Steve waited until the door was closed. “That’s my new nickname now, isn’t it,” he said despondently.

“Of course not. You’ll always be Clint’s Autopsy Gremlin.”

It took all of Steve’s effort not to bang his head against the one-way mirror.

* * *

Phil let the door shut quietly behind him as he entered the interview room, taking in Henry Pym’s slumped figure and nervous tics all from the corner of his eyes. He kept his movement minimal as he slipped into the seat across from the scientist and set a thin folder before him. He deliberately straightened the file, letting Pym’s gaze settle uncertainly on him. Then, with the same precise movements, he pulled the bagged-up BlackBerry from his coat and placed it between them.

He kept his expression completely neutral, refusing to look up even as Henry froze in his seat. Instead, he opened the folder and examined the sheet Tony had just printed out for him. Again, he made a show of studying it rather than the suspect.

The man broke in less than thirty seconds. “I know how this looks.”

“How does it look, Mister Pym?”

“Doctor.” This time, Phil glanced across the table. “I did spend four years-“

“Titles don’t mean much when you’re on death row.”

“Death row?”

“You’re looking at felony murder.”

“I—you can’t think someone in my position-“

“Position?” Phil flipped a picture of Ross out from the folder, one that captured both Ross’ empty eyes and crushed skull. “The only position I care about is the one this General ended up in.”

Henry didn’t flinch, didn’t avert his eyes. He took a slow look at the picture, then turned his attention back to the phone. Crossing his arms again, he squeezed his elbow. “I didn’t kill him.”

Phil didn’t blink. “You had his phone. You were there.”

“I,” his gaze slipped over to Coulson before sliding back to the table. “I mean…”

“Do you really think,” Phil said evenly, “I need to be here?” At that, the scientist’s shoulders tensed. “I have plenty to bring to legal this instant for a conviction.” He folded his hands on the table. “This is your one chance before you’re convicted. I step out,” he inclined his head towards the door, “and any protestations will be seen as self-serving attempts to try to escape justice.”

The man’s neck completely disappeared as he hunched over. Phil waited a moment, then grabbed the phone and the photo, intimating he was about to get up.

“Fine, fine! Fine. I was,” he swallowed, “I was there.” His hands clenched on his arms.

The agent settled back in his seat, his face an eerie blank mask. “We’ve established that. Why were you there, Pym?”

He took a deep breath. “Janet, Janet slept with Hammer. I found out, confronted him and, well…” He deliberately forced the tension back beneath the surface, straightening out of his slump. “I was fired. She…found alternative employment.”

“Thank you for the backstory.” His tone was just shy of sarcastic. “And last night?’

“Nathan—Doctor Richards is an acquaintance. He wasn’t thrilled Hammer stole his designs. Hammer made it clear that he had to sign the new patent agreement or face years of litigation. And Nate,” he shook his head, “Nate’s got money, but not enough to fight in court for years. So he agreed. Or appeared to.” Another deep breath. “He contacted me just before he left. I was fired, but he said he had someone who could…override his badge’s lockout. And he figured once he was on his way to China, Hammer wouldn’t bother keeping an eye out for such things.”

Phil pulled a pen from his pocket. “This someone?”

“The night Guard, Schmidt. Nate paid him a couple grand to futz the security recordings and activate his badge for a few hours.” He finally released the grip on his arms and let them fall to the side.

After a quick note, Phil nodded at him to continue.

“So, we both wanted to screw Hammer,” he spat the name. “Nate handed me a suicide command to upload to VISION.” He paused. “That’s his enhanced satellite tracking program, named Visual-“

“We can skip that bit,” Phil interrupted. “What did he pay you?”

“Ten grand. Something to hide in the,” he looked away again, “in the divorce.” He cleared his throat. “And maybe a future job working on artificial intelligence.”

“So you entered the premises-“

“Ross wasn’t there,” Henry was quick to say. “That is, when I arrived, the atrium was empty. It took me about thirty, forty minutes to hack in, upload the virus, and when I went to leave…” Now he flinched, pushing the photograph away. “I panicked, I mean, the neck, twisted like that, it was obvious he was...you know.” He turned back to the man across from him. “I thought maybe whoever was still around, would get me, but…nothing. No one. And then I heard sounds from, from the BlackBerry.”

“And you didn’t call 9-1-1? You didn’t speak to whoever was worried on the other end of the line?”

A bit of shame finally crawled across Henry’s face. “I-I just hit the end call. He was a jackass, but he had files on everyone, every project. And, and,” he stuttered, then stopped.

“And greed won out. You figured no one would think you could override the kill command and notice a few files copied here and there.” He winced at the bite in Phil’s tone. “It didn’t even register that what you were doing was wrong? That a man had died and you were-“

“Committing a felony, during a felony.” Resignation tinged his voice. “I—it wasn’t, it wasn’t my greatest moment.” He sat quietly as Phil gathered the picture and device again. His hand snapped out, grabbing Phil’s wrist. “I didn’t kill him,” he pleaded, “I swear on, on anything. I just took the phone.” He released the agent. “N-nothing more.”

Letting not even a hint of disappointment or frustration escape the blank persona he displayed, Phil left the room without a word and shut the door behind him, waiting in the hall.

Natasha joined him a moment later, exiting from the observation room. “He’s stupid,” she said bluntly, “a grave robber, an opportunist.”

“But probably not our killer,” Phil finished. “If the victim was Hammer, perhaps, but not the General.”

“I doubt he could have snuck up upon a man so well trained.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll pick up Schmidt.”

“Take Bruce. Re-interview the ones that were there last night, see if any of them marked his patrols.” She nodded and quickly shifted past him and down the hall. Phil waited until she was around the corner, before turning his attention back to the observation room door. “Rogers.”

There was a beat, then the blond medical examiner stepped out with a light blush. “Sorry, sir. I just…I think the dead might speak better if I understood the psychology of the living a bit.”

Phil blinked. He let the mask fall away and offered the young man a subtle smile. “Actually, I was going to ask if you could return this,” he held out the phone, “to Stark.”

“Oh.” He took the evidence bag. “Yes. Yeah, sure. No problem.”

A brief nod. “Did you learn anything,” he asked, when it was obvious Steve wasn’t leaving immediately.

“Not,” his brow furrowed, “not really. Wanting revenge, I get that.” He paused. “Well, get, as in understand, not that I’d—I mean, I think about it sometimes, but-“

“Rogers.”

Steve twitched. “Sorry. Um. Right, the body. He found the body, and fight or flight, sure.” He shook the bag in his hand. “Then he thought to take this? Not get help?”

“He was taking part in a crime at that moment.”

“Yeah, but doesn’t murder trump…whatever else? I mean, he’s a doctor! He’s had medical training, it’s in his record! As a doctor—I mean, even if he ran after he called it in…” Steve let out a frustrated huff. “I just don’t understand that mentality.”

Phil’s grin grew a little more genuine, even if his tone became teasing. “It’s times like this, Rogers, that I know you’re the best of us.” He slapped the man on the bicep twice, then turned on heel and strode down the hall.

Steve stared dumbfounded after the man. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he asked the air.

* * *

Bruce quietly glanced at the paperwork on Jane Foster’s desk. Clint didn’t bother in the initial interview to determine what the pair were working on. It wasn’t so much a failing as a blind spot, something the man refused to admit he had. Even after years of working with him, Bruce knew that theoretical science and technology were something that could make Clint’s eyes glaze over.

Unless, of course, it was a threat to national security.

This research most definitely wasn’t. It appeared to be details on atmospheric disturbances and their impact on communications technology. A vital project, to be sure, but not exactly the holy grail of military developments.

He was just flipping over the latest printout of simulation results when Jane herself appeared with a large cup of coffee and a vending machine sandwich. Even from across the room, he could tell it was stale. “Doctor Foster,” he said congenially.

“Yes? I’m,” she got a pinched look on her face, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He rose, but didn’t offer his hand as she didn’t have one free. “Special Agent Bruce Banner. I was hoping I could follow-up with you and Doctor Selvig regarding this morning’s interview.”

She let out a long sigh and collapsed into the chair behind her desk. The sandwich dropped from her grasp, but the coffee never even sloshed. “Erik’s gone home to rest. Neither of us have been getting much sleep and,” she used her free hand to rub her eyes, “and all of this is, is very much not helping.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sympathetically. “I remember what it’s like.” At her raised eyebrow, he offered her a brief smile, “MIT grad.”

“You never had a General-“

“General Ross, yes.” He grimaced. “He was—let’s just say despite my best efforts my research was being looked at for its potential as a weapon.”

“Ugh,” she let her head fall back, “weapons, weapons. It’s always weapons with them.” She suddenly lurched forward, the cup nearly slamming upon the table. “What we’re doing is important.” She picked up a handful of papers. “We’re on the verge of developing a method to cut through interference, natural or otherwise.” She threw up her arms. “How is that not important? How is that less vital than targeting programs or exploding ammunition? How?!”

Bruce shook his head. “It’s not.”

She deflated immediately. “I know.” She leaned back again, hands coming up to cover her eyes. “And I know they care about that, they do. Some of them are just so focused, so, so…” She trailed off, as if that outburst had burned the last of her energy.

He waited a minute, let her collect herself, and then cleared his throat. “It sounds like-“

“The General was never a fan of the low-key research projects,” she recited dully. “Erik was sure he was going to cut our funding. Without that funding, Mister Hammer had very little incentive to keep us.”

“But would keep your research,” he finished, remembering what Clint had reported earlier.

“It’s our life. Well,” she finally let her hands fall away, “it’s Erik’s life. I’m along for the ride. Need to get a foothold to launch my own research. He knew my father, and I’m bright enough to keep up with him.”

“He was pretty vocal about Ross’ demise.”

She shook her head, eyes closed. “He’s not like that, really.” She let out a shaky breath. “They met years ago, another D-O-D project. The General was there, too, and apparently he wasn’t a fan of the scientists.”

“The General did have his own special way with them,” he muttered sardonically.

Jane offered him a weary grin in return, before leaning forward on the desk. “You said you had some follow-up?” She slowly unwrapped the food, tearing off a small corner but mainly picking it apart. “Did, did you find something?”

“Actually, since you were here last night, we were wondering if you saw the security guard.”

Her forehead wrinkled as she thought. “Smith?”

“Schmidt.”

“Yeah,” she drew out slowly, “oh, yeah, yes. The burn victim.” She immediately covered her mouth, eyes wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-“

Bruce waved it off. “It’s alright.” He nodded encouragingly. “Did you see him at all last night?”

“I don’t,” she narrowed her eyes in thought, “I think I saw his first walk around. Tennish? Eleven?” She reached up to straighten the frizzled hair; barely kept bound in a ponytail. “After that it got…blurry. We were very focused. I, I nodded off, for a bit.” She smiled softly. “Erik stole me some coffee and a danish from Hammer’s private kitchen.”

Bruce made a note. “When was that?”

“I, I’m not sure. After one? Maybe, maybe, two?” She rested both hands on her head. “I…last night really was a blur. Followed by the trauma of this morning…”

“It’s okay,” Bruce soothed. “I’ll ask Doctor Selvig.”

“Please don’t disturb—I mean, he’s gotten so little sleep these past few days, and-“

She was cut off by Natasha stepping into the room. Bruce turned in his seat, taking in the frown marring her features. “Natasha?”

“Schmidt’s on the run.”

* * *

“I don’t know, he called in sick I’m sure,” Justin Hammer said absently, his voice slightly high-pitched. “I don’t keep track of security guards. In case you didn’t know who I am-“

“I know,” Phil said calmly. After Natasha’s discovery of the security guard, she and Bruce had dragged the man back to headquarters. His lawyer was already on his way, but Phil wasn’t worried. His team could be exceptionally efficient at keeping people distracted. “You run a very impressive company.” He turned the folder in front of him around. “A company that, without D-O-D contracts, would fold.”

“That is an unscrupulous lie! Vindictively released by our competitors!” He didn’t even bother looking at the sheet. His suit was rumpled, tie skewed, and his hair in just a bit of disarray. Phil could also see fear beneath the bluster and arrogance; that of an animal backed into a corner. “Hammer Labs was founded forty-six years ago and has never been stronger. Not to mention that I have a very close, very personal relationship with many senators in Washington.” He glared pointedly at the agent.

“You’ll find threats don’t work here. Especially since most of those senators haven’t been returning your calls.” He opened another folder. “Fifteen in the last three days,” he commented lightly, before setting the phone records on the table, “and not a single returning call to you.”

Justin flushed, but passed his hand over the paper as if it were nothing. “They’re extremely busy running the country. They’ll get back to me as soon as they can.”

“You know what I think, Mister Hammer?”

“I don’t. I’m not one to think small.”

Phil let the acrid words wash over him. “I think you discovered General Ross was recommending a dissolution of your relationship with the D-O-D. I think you desperately needed to keep that keystone in place so your empire didn’t fall around your ears.” He pulled out a picture of Ross, the one he’d used on Pym earlier. “I think you invited the General for a clandestine meeting. Possibly to beg, possibly to bribe.”

“I’d murder him in my own building,” Justin derided, “because I’m just that stupid.”

“You’re just that arrogant. Your building, your turf. You could control what would happen. And when he refused, you lost it.”

The man snorted, sitting back in his chair. “Great story, suspenseful and daring, except for, you know, it’s _fiction_!” He yelled the last part. “You know what I think? I think you’re so desperate to find a scapegoat, so strapped with cutbacks that you’re grabbing at straws, willing to slander the target that will get you the best press.” He stood, shoving the chair back. “I have lawyers for that kind of thing. You, Agent Coulson,” he spat, “are going to find yourself in a very messy, very bloody fight. And you will lose!”

He straightened his tie and attempted to compose himself. “And that,” he said, the smarmy smile and sparkling salesmanship back in place, “is how I win my battles. I don’t need to kill anyone. I let them bleed out financially.”

Phil folded his hands together. “You need the government contracts,” he said, as if Justin’s tirade meant nothing. “You need Richards’ patent to shore up a failing business.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” He made for the door, only to find it locked. “Cute. But I’m an American citizen. You can’t keep me detained.”

Phil swiveled his seat towards the CEO. “You needed General Ross’ support. And when he withdrew it, you no longer needed the General.”

“I don’t need to murder anyone.”

“You prolonged the review. Long enough to try and find assistance among your dwindling allies in Washington. Allies,” he said with a hint of a smile, “that have no interest in a sinking ship.”

Justin smiled back, perfect and obviously completely false. “I think you’ll find it’s your case that’s sinking. And I, I intend to be there when it falls in on your head.”

The door opened then, revealing an extremely tall, very well-built man. His long hair was just this side of greasy, and despite his fine suit he projected the aura of a Mafioso. “Anton Vanko,” he intoned with a heavy Russian accent, “counsel for Mister Hammer. We will be leaving now.”

Phil nodded, already turning his attention away. “We’re finished anyways.” He slipped all the paperwork back into the proper folders. “Oh, and Mister Hammer?” He waited until the man looked at him. “Don’t make any travel plans. We’ll want to speak again.”

“Speak to my attorney,” he snipped back, already walking down the hall.

Clint stepped out of the observation room just as the two men rounded the corner. “Man, that is one scary lawyer. Betcha on his off hours he devours children and plots the demise of the world.”

“No bet,” Phil said mildly. “What’ve you got?”

Clint shrugged and started walking in the opposite direction, Phil at his shoulder. “Ross’ driver is clean, he had good reason to transfer, and Parker confirmed his story. The others either weren’t in town or overseas.” He pulled out his notebook. “Lang finally got back to us. His daughter was part of the humanitarian efforts in Afghanistan during the raid last month.”

Phil stopped. “Hammer fired him after that?” The outrage was evident even with his quiet tone, but Clint pulled up short at hearing it.

“No, sir. The timing of the downsizing was coincidental. But he’s been with his ex-wife. Planning for their daughter’s funeral.” Clint tried not to let his own emotions bleed into his voice. “We’ve already gotten a half-dozen calls of relatives screaming at us to let the man grieve in peace.”

“Do that. And be sure to send our condolences.”

Clint knew that he didn’t mean from SHIELD. “I’ve already contacted the florist.” At Phil’s nod, they continued walking again. “Miss Van Dyne has an alibi as well. She was in a hotel renting a clandestine movie,” his lips twitched, “Nefertiti’s Harem. From the descriptions, we should definitely rent it.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“It’s a lot less interesting than you think,” Phil deadpanned and started down the stairs. Clint stared after him. “You coming?”

“Not yet,” he muttered, jogging so he made the landing at the same time as his boss.

Phil ignored him and sat behind his desk. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, and the fluorescent lights were dimmed enough to cast everything in an aura of shadow. He waited all of two beats before looking at his other agents. “Report.”

“Johann Schmidt,” Tasha stood and step out from her desk in one seemingly elegant glide, “night security for Hammer Laboratories.” The picture on the screen was that of a man with no hair, sunken, dark eyes, and a red mar to his entire skull as he glared at the camera. “A German immigrant, he arrived with his family after World War Two. Graduated with degrees in physiology and biochemistry. Shortly after that, he returned to Germany where,” frustration entered her tone, “he appears to have vanished.”

“Until he returned,” Bruce said, not looking up from his computer. “About five years ago he reappeared with the burns, a degree in computer science, and no explanation. Despite his higher education, he’s only been a guard for Hammer.”

“Now what,” Clint asked, “would make a man with three degrees stoop to being a security guard?”

Tony dashed around the corner just as Clint finished his question. “Someone who went off grid for a while, and is supposed to be dead.”

All four stared at the man, but rather than his usual grin and effervescent nature, Tony was staring straight at Phil, completely serious. The agent raised an eyebrow. “Dead.”

The scientist nodded, fingers already dancing on his tablet as a new file and pictures appeared on the plasma screen. “Johann Schmidt, more commonly known as the Red Skull.”

That had Phil on his feet. “Stark-“

“I know, I know, worst joke in history.” He still wasn’t smiling. “He fooled the background check Hammer put his prints through, but not Interpol’s.” He tilted his chin up. “Stuffy jackasses, but they never pull prints from the system. Schmidt’s flagged immediately.”

Bruce had stopped typing, and glanced from Tony to Phil. “Who’s the Red Skull?”

“Fourth most wanted on the FBI, CIA, and NCIS’ terrorist watch list. Five years ago.” Clint was staring at Phil now. “Before my time, but I’d heard the stories. They pulled his body from a burning car.”

“They pulled charred remains,” Natasha said, anger lancing her voice. “No fingerprints. No DNA. Dental records were a half-match at best.”

“We were sure,” Phil continued, “because there was no way out of that blast. He was definitely driving the car.”

“Apparently, he wasn’t driving it alone.” Tony pulled up the one known picture of the Red Skull, and placed it next to Johann Schmidt’s image. He had slicked back brown hair and vicious spark in his blue eyes, but it was definitely the same man, once the images were put together. “He faked his death, ran back here-“

“And hid in DC.” Phil’s face was a complete mask, impenetrable and hiding all his emotions and thoughts. “In a place where he could keep an eye on developing military technology.”

“What,” Bruce started, hesitated, and then turned to Tony, “what was he a terrorist for?”

“He got involved in the Neo-Nazi movement back in Berlin. Moved up through the ranks after showing the metro system just how effective closed-air circulation can be with biochemical weapons.” Clint waved towards Natasha. “Pulled a few jobs in your country too, I believe.”

While Natasha could hide her emotions as effectively as Phil, at the moment one of her fists was clenching. “If you’ll excuse me,” she bit out, “I have to make a call to Director Hill. FSB will want to know he’s alive.”

“I’ll put out an APB,” Clint said, already moving to his desk. “He won’t get away again.”

Phil nodded once, still staring at Tony. The man didn’t fidget, if anything, there was a bit of sympathy emanating from the usually energetic man. “Anything else?”

“I looked over the files Ross had on him.” He glanced around, then approached Phil’s desk and lowered his voice. “It looks,” he stopped.

“Spit it out.”

“Ross might have been working with Schmidt. Some of those files are for experimental weapons technology. The same,” he hesitated again, “the same kind that were used in the Abomination Affair. Only updated.”

“Emil Blonsky was never captured.” The Red Skull’s death had been accidental, if fortunate; but Blonsky—the terrorist who’d been approached by the General for Project Abomination--had stolen millions from the government. That had been the most humiliating factor of the ordeal; that a terrorist was living it up on America’s money.

“Maybe he’s back in the game?” Tony sounded about as thrilled with that prospect as Phil felt.

“Maybe.” He stared past the scientist a minute. “Contact Interpol, I want everything they have on Abomination, Red Skull, the entire affair. If they have the remains, have it sent as well. I want a work-up from Thor.”

“I’m on it.” Once again, Tony’s fingers were dancing across the tablet as he spun and marched back towards his lab.

Phil turned to look at the picture of Schmidt and Red Skull, frowning. The staring contest lasted minutes, at the end of which, Phil turned on his own heel and stalked towards the elevator. Natasha shared a glance with Bruce, then Clint.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

_“Probie,”_ Jasper Sitwell, cantankerous and annoyed, reverberated around the basement, _“this better be good. It’s fiesta night on the topless beach and I was just about to-“_

“Red Skull’s alive.”

The phone was utterly silent. _“Barton, if this is a crank call, I will murder you.”_

“Just me, Jasper.” Phil poured himself a shot of scotch. “He was living in DC under an assumed name.”

The sounds of roaring fires and party faded behind muted swearing. _“I can be on the first flight-“_

“Do it and _I’ll_ murder _you_. You’re retired.”

_“Not for that son of a bitch. It burned enough that Blonsky got away. The one silver lining from that entire damned mess-“_

“I know.”

_“And it’s a lie! I swear, I’m gonna kill someone.”_

Phil took a sip, then wandered over to his display cases. His basement was centered on a restoration table, designed to let him restore and preserve valuable trading cards. Most involved sports figures, the occasional dead scientist. His passion, though, were nineteen-forties bubble-gum comic characters. He had the complete WWII set, displayed proudly in a lighted case mounted on the cinderblock wall. Beneath it was a temperature controlled cabinet where he kept his others.

_“You’re not leaving me out of this, Coulson.”_

“I’m not inviting you in, either.” Another sip, and he turned to stare at the staircase leading to the kitchen. “This is a courtesy call.”

_“You mean a warning. Red Skull’s alive, he might be after us.”_

“Might just be running.”

_“Bull. That bastard’s always had contingency after contingency, and always some doomsday market on the side. Before our win—before he faked his death, anyone who even came close was found dead. We were going to be the ones, Probie.”_

“I’ll bring him in for you.”

_“You’re only ten years younger than me, I don’t need you fightin-“_

“You’re still a wanted man. The CIA hasn’t forgiven you for that stunt in Boliva.”

_“If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”_

“Don’t break the truce for an old terrorist. We got this, Jasper. I promise.” Clint appeared in the lit doorway, leather coat in one hand and bag of takeaway in the other. He remained on the landing of the steps, waiting. Phil offered him a short nod, but didn’t move.

 _“Fine.”_ There was a huff of frustration. _“Can’t find my damn pants anyways.”_

“Thanks for sharing.”

_“I’ll share what I damned well like. It’s what you get for interrupting my party night.”_

He let out a hum. “Didn’t you say it was a topless party?”

_“Topless, bottomless, no one gives a rat’s ass with this much booze.”_

Phil finished his scotch and put it carefully away on the butler’s table he kept in the corner of the room. “Take care, Jas.”

 _“Kick his ass, Probie.”_ Despite him not having a cradle, somehow the effort to hang up the phone with a slam was blatantly evident in the abrupt silence before the shrill dial tone emanated from the speaker.

Phil walked over and turned off the device. “Status?”

“Bruce is bunking with Tony, I think they’re building a blanket fort next to Mister Mass-Spec. Interpol’s rushing everything over, so Thor will work his magic first thing in the A-M. Hill apparently called some pow-wow and Tasha skedaddled ‘bout an hour ago.” He shrugged, lifting the food. “I figured you could get some chow before crashing. Not like you’d sleep after a day like today.”

“I’ll sleep.”

Clint snorted. “You’ll lie in the bed with your eyes closed and meditate, thinking you’ll fool me.”

“I always fool you.”

“Course you do, boss.”

Phil stared at him a moment, before letting the entire façade fall away, allowing the edginess and weariness appear between them. “He was supposed to be buried.”

The grin slid off Clint’s face. “I know.”

“And now he’s killed someone else.”

“A jackass.”

“A General.”

“That’s what I said.”

Phil shook his head. “Clint.”

“Look,” he rested his forearms against the railing, making sure the bag swung safely above his feet and not the floor below, “maybe he killed him, maybe he didn’t.”

“Ross had to have recognized him.”

“Possibly. Possibly this is just coincidence.”

“You don’t believe in coincidences.”

“You do.”

“Coincidences happen every day,” Phil intoned, “I just don’t trust them.”

There was affection in Clint’s, “Nerd,” accusation.

Phil glanced back at his collection. “If he’s back-“

“We’ll shut him down.”

“He eluded capture-“

“He’s a burned old man on the run in New York City. We’ll find him.”

Phil snorted. “Always so cocksure of yourself,” he muttered, strolling towards the stairs and taking them two at a time.

“Rather be sure of your coc-“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he said, grabbing the bag from Clint’s unresisting fingers. “Armenian?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s gonna be a storm of alphabet piss. Best to get the comfort food first.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Always so eloquent.” He stepped back into the kitchen.

Grinning, Clint swaggered after him. “Damned straight.”

* * *

Clint was half a step behind Phil as they approached the SHIELD office the next morning. Outside, Steve was kissing a woman. Her dark hair was voluminous and curled, but wasn’t enough to hide the blush on Steve’s cheeks as he broke their lip-lock and stared, eyes bright and blind to the world around him. She was wearing a green dress uniform with the scarlet and white castle patch identifying her as a member of the Corps of Engineers.

Phil walked by without even pausing, though he did glance in their direction. Clint, however, couldn’t help himself and slapped Steve on his back. “Gremlin!” The man jumped about a foot, and the woman’s grin was an obvious attempt to hold back a laugh. “Who let you out of autopsy? It’s like feeding you after midnight: a no-go.”

“Clint,” Steve half groaned, half hissed.

The woman finally laughed and held out her hand. “Peggy Carter.” Clint shook it, immediately noticing the engagement ring.

“Clint Barton, and you are far too lovely to settle for a guy like Steve.”

Steve’s face turned even redder and he slapped Clint in the stomach with the back of his hand. Clint doubled over, only half-pretending it had winded him. Steve had gotten strong since they’d last sparred. “I’m sorry,” Steve started, only for Peggy to snort.

“I eat guys like him for lunch.” The mirth vanished for an instant, and Clint found himself looking into the face of a woman who wouldn’t think twice about kicking his ass. “Call him Gremlin again, and you’ll be sitting funny for a week.”

Rubbing his stomach, Clint saluted with his other hand. “Yes, ma’am.” The relieved sigh from Steve was definitely uncalled for, though.

“Good.” She gave Steve a peck on the cheek then spun on her heels and walked towards a car just a few feet down the block.

Clint watched her go. Beautiful and strong-willed, taking no one’s crap and willing to defend her man; the perfect combination for someone like Steve, who was a bit of a push-over at times. He wrapped his arm around Steve’s neck. “So,” he said, turning the man around and walking them into the building. “Where did you meet her and does she have a twin?”

Still flushing, Steve hit the elevator button. “We first met when I was working a USO show for military engineers in Germany. Then we met again months later, where she helped me set up the stage for a show in Turkey. She wrote me after that and we’ve kept in contact since. Last year she was promoted to Colonel and offered a position at Fort Hamilton, running logistics for the North-Atlantic Division of the Corps. We’ve been,” he ducked his head just as the doors opened, “we’ve been dating a while.”

“Obviously.” He grinned and gave Steve a quick noogie before releasing him. “Getting married? When were you gonna tell us?”

Steve looked towards the ceiling, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s not official yet. I mean, I have to ask her father’s permission.”

“What is this, nostalgia America? It’s the twenty-first century! Live a little, just announce it.”

This time Steve shoved him lightly. “Not all of us stand on our desks and announce our nightly conquests.”

“I haven’t done that in two years, and I’ll have you know everyone appreciated the knowledge.” Clint’s grin widened. “I started a trend, as I recall.”

“God, when you and Bucky got into a pissing match…”

“Hah! You only wish you’d seen our pissing matches.” Clint could joke now, but Bucky—James Barnes—had been Agent Coulson’s latest recruit after a year of working with Clint alone. The man had been the epitome of the roguish daredevil with his dark hair, smoldering eyes, and prosthetic arm from some secret mission during his sniper days. Phil had stolen him from the Secret Service after a botched assassination attempt on the president, and after some initial bickering, Bucky and Clint had gotten on like a house on fire, their rivalry easy cover for their friendship.

His loss still stung, but Bucky wouldn’t want him to excessively mourn his passing. So when Steve looked over at him, Clint waggled his eyebrows.

Exasperated, Steve shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”

“Usually wise when Clint’s involved,” Natasha said as the doors opened. “Speaking of,” she grabbed Clint’s backpack and ignored his protest. “Director wants to see you.”

“Damn.” Clint’s good humor melted away as he stepped off the elevator. He glanced to the second floor that bordered—and overlooked—the bullpen of cubicles. Phil had put his briefcase down on his desk and was staring at the railing above, brow furrowed.

Staring back was Director Nick Fury. He’d stepped up to head SHIELD before Director Potts’ body was even cold. He wasn’t a tall man, practically the same height as Phil, yet he always projected an aura of looming and menace. He was most known for his leather duster, which he wore whenever he left the building. Right now, though, he was in a simple black power suit, one that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and rigidity of his spine.

He’d shaved his head ages ago, although he maintained a stylish beard and mustache. Rumors abounded over the truth of the patch covering the left eye. Even with one missing eye, his thousand-yard glare could bore into the most hardened terrorist, the most confident congressman. He was also exceptionally competent with a weapon, and took to espionage and counter-intelligence as if he was born to it. He was, in many ways, a legend even before he’d taken the seat of one of the most powerful government agencies in the world.

He was also, unsurprisingly, an old acquaintance of Phil’s. Rumors abounded about that too, especially since they could exchange entire conversations with nothing more than a twitch of an eyelid and wrinkling of the nose. It was slightly unnerving, the way Phil would know when the Director was above and turn to have a silent discussion. Even more disturbing was the way Natasha picked it up instantly, though considering how close Fury and Russia’s Security Bureau director were, perhaps not so much.

Writing off his morning and trying to figure out why they might be called to the Director’s office, Clint headed up the stairs, letting Phil take the lead after a couple of steps. By the time they reached the top the Director had retreated to his office. Phil ignored the secretary, but Clint waved briefly at the guy. Any man who played video games ten feet from Director Fury was good in his book.

The man standing in the Director’s office, however, was not. Clint crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, staring down the intruder.

“Barton,” barked the Director, “play nice.”

“I’m always nice.” It was obvious no one believed that. “How’s Katie-Kate? My favorite niece enjoying that bow I got her?”

“She loves it so much she’s in class at six in the morning.” A glare accompanied the reply. “Thank you so much for that gift.”

Clint’s grin was sharp as a knife. “You’re welcome.”

“Boys,” Phil’s voice was firm, with a hint of a warning.

Clint shrugged and continued propping up the wall behind him, keeping his eyes upon the other man.

“Agent Barton,” Nick announced upon sitting behind his desk, “has some interesting information on your case.”

Agent Barney Barton was nearly identical to Clint, save for the red in his hair and broader shoulders. He also had an inch on his younger brother, and after getting into some trouble, had become an FBI agent, one that Clint saw far too often in this office. The man was wearing his usual navy suit, sunglasses still on as if to reinforce that Man in Black stereotype. The greatest difference, though, was obvious once the man spoke. Clint had charm and wit to mask the dangerous agent hidden beneath a casual exterior.

Barney projected menace and restrained violence, and even his deeper, gravelly voice reinforced that image. “It’s come to our attention that you have General Ross in your morgue.”

“Bit late to the party.”

Barney shot his brother a dark look. “He’s been assisting us on a case. I’d like to be caught up with your findings.”

“I’d like-“ A subtle hand gesture from Phil shut Clint up.

“What case,” Phil said instead.

“That’s classified.”

“Guess what,” Nick said with a straight face, “so’s our investigation.”

The FBI agent visibly tensed. “This is in the name of national security. You have to disclose-“

“Jack.” Nick stood from his desk, bracing both palms on its surface. “If there’s nothing else.”

Both of Barney’s fists clenched as he stared at the Director. After a minute, he forced out, “We suspect someone at Hammer Labs is conducting corporate espionage.”

“Certainly something like that wouldn’t fall under the province of the Bureau.” Phil had moved to stand to the left of the Director’s desk. “Unless there’s more you’re not telling us.” The sardonic tone was an accusation.

Another glare, this time at Phil. After the veins on his neck pulsated visibly for a moment, Barney clenched his teeth and ground out, “Our investigation has led us to Stane Industries, and some unusual activity in Stane’s campaign fund.”

“There, was that so hard?” Barney’s glare snapped to Clint, who merely offered the man a cheeky grin with his mockingly-light tone. “It’s like we’re one big happy not-our-family.”

“I don’t care about your dramatics, Barton,” Nick said, taking his seat again. “I’ve heard rumors that Obadiah might be running.” Nick exchanged a glance with Phil. “He’s big with defense contracts, manufacturing.”

“He set up a political action committee nearly a year ago.” Barney kept his eyes locked on his brother as he spoke.

“And you suspect he’s funding the espionage through that?” Phil’s brow furrowed. “Still not an exclusive FBI matter.” He raised a pointed eyebrow. “And certainly not enough to warrant a visit, unless you suspect Stane killed Ross.”

“Not his style.” The Director leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. “Stane doesn’t do his own dirty work.”

Finally breaking off his glaring match with Clint, Barney guardedly took a seat in the leather chair across the desk. “It’s not just espionage.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a USB drive. “We can’t prove it, but the new projects Stane Industries has focused on involve weapons development. Some mirroring Hammer’s.”

“It’s a competitive market.”

Barney tossed the USB stick to Phil, who caught it one-handed. “Except the mimicry isn’t complete. Some projects never transition over, despite their high viability.” He finally took off his sunglasses. “If the espionage was to prepare for the new DARPA contracts, of taking over from Hammer, why wouldn’t he keep all viable projects?”

Clint pushed himself upwards, letting his attitude melt away. “You think Stane’s dirty.” Barney nodded once, but Clint was already meeting Phil’s eyes. “Remember a few years back? We shut down that weapons smuggling operation?”

“The Ten Rings.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “We never determined the source. The suspects insisted it was all second hand.”

“But the RPG. That was manufactured by Stane Industries. We figured they raided a warehouse or shipment.”

“Was there any connection between the Ten Rings and Stane?” Nick asked.

“No,” Phil and Barney answered simultaneously.

“Creepy,” Clint muttered.

Phil ignored him. “Stark and Banner dug, but there was nothing definitive.”

“Fortunately our resources and interrogation times aren’t as restrictive as yours.” It was difficult to discern if Barney was being arrogant about this situation, or it was just his natural hubris showing through. “We got a little farther.”

“Innuendo and shadows?” Clint smirked. “Ten Rings were hardened terrorists, and a few years in Gitmo ain’t gonna break them.”

“No,” Barney shot back, “it ain’t. Their middle men weren’t as quick on the uptake though. We found a pattern between share purchases on the stock market and delivery of the contraband.” He crossed his arms and smirked at the Director. “All subsidies of Stane Industries.”

“Coincidence.” Nick shot back.

The smirk remained in place. “There’s a new group out there, replacing Ten Rings. They’re starting to get shipments. The same thing is happening.”

“Stane can’t hold the purse strings on a PAC,” Phil pointed out.

The brothers snorted. “Like that’s ever stopped people like them,” Clint retorted.

Phil frowned, but conceded the point. “So why haven’t you frozen and seized the funds? Why haven’t you gone after Stane?”

Barney’s superior look vanished instantly, but it was the Director who shook his head and answered. “Obadiah’s made some valued contributions both to the military and numerous senators. He’s not a fish you just catch.”

“We’ve taken down bigger,” Phil countered.

“Not without a hell of a lot evidence.” Phil went silent at that. Nick leaned forward again, eyeing Barney over. “How does Ross relate?”

At this, Barney shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We approached the General-“

“We,” Clint interrupted, “or you?”

The agent flinched. “I approached the General. My task force, my lead. We’d already determined Hammer, jackass that he is, wasn’t involved. Which meant someone with access to the D-O-D projects. All the projects. A long list.”

“And if you started sniffing around, the spy would vanish in the wind.” Clint scratched his neck, thinking. “The General was already thinking of switching over to Stane Industries?”

“Stane opened a research department two years ago, and brought it up to Pentagon standards in June.” Barney rubbed his hands together slowly. “Certain senators had made the…’suggestion’…that switching companies would be strategically resourceful.”

“And the General went along with it?” Incredulity laced Phil’s voice.

“Hated it. But he hated Hammer more, so the decision was made to finish the year, complete an inventory of projects so Stane could-“

“Snatch them away like a vulture.”

Barney nodded at his brother. “Yes. It also gave us insight into the projects that would be transitioned, as well as who had access to the information, who might be the spy-“

Clint suddenly jerked up from his slouched position and yelled, “You heard him get sledgehammered.” He pointed an accusing finger. “He was meeting _you_!”

Barney’s spine instantly straightened. “Our meetings had to be clandestine. Any whiff of my involvement-“

“Why the Labs?” Phil’s mask was back on, emotions hidden and voice neutral. “Why not a park? A garage?”

“We did. We varied the location each time. SOP.” He shifted in his seat again. “Ross chose the atrium. Said he had something to show me.”

Clint and Phil’s eyes met. “Something,” Clint started.

“Or someone?” At Barney’s confused look, Phil nodded towards the door. “Johann Schmidt, the night security guard, is the Red Skull.”

Both Barney and Nick were staring at Phil. Barney was slack-jawed and struggling to say something. The Director merely looked Phil over, reading his body language.

“He’s dead!” The FBI agent’s voice actually rose an octave.

“The identification was never conclusive.” Phil folded his hands behind his back. “Stark put it together yesterday. Interpol overnighted as much as they could. Thor will be looking over the details to try and get a definitive answer.”

Nick stared at his senior agent another minute, then turned in his seat, pinning Barney with a hard stare. “The USB drive has all the details of your case?”

Still sitting at attention, Barney nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. SHIELD will take it from here.”

“You…but I’ve put in years-“

“If we find evidence that links Stane to selling weapons, we’ll forward it. Our interest is in Red Skull.” The Director’s tone brooked no argument. “You’re dismissed, unless you have anything else to contribute.”

Barney’s skin flushed as his body trembled, but he shook his head and shot out of his seat. “Fine,” he bit out, anger bleeding through. At the door, he glared once again at Clint, who smiled widely, showing off his teeth. Barney’s hands clenched into fists twice before he slammed the door open and stomped out.

Clint waited a beat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a smoke.” Satisfaction oozed through his voice.

“Can it, Barton,” Nick glared at his agent. “If you stopped ticking him off, I wouldn’t get so many complaints from the Bureau.”

“Can’t promise to do that, sir.”

“Clint.” Phil inclined his head towards the door. The man nodded back and spun out the open entryway, once again waving to the administrative assistant just outside. Phil walked over and closed the door behind him, staring at the fine grain before turning back around.

Nick was already at the small wet bar behind the meeting table across the room. “God dammit, Phil. Get your agent a muzzle.”

“I believe it’s already on his Christmas list,” Phil strolled over, took the offered shot of whiskey and shifted to sit at the nearby table.

“Thanks for that nightmare image,” Fury sat across from him and eyed the plasma on the wall, currently showing ZNN’s latest international correspondent. “You’re sure?”

“Stark’s sure. And he wouldn’t tell me unless he was sure.”

Nick’s one eye narrowed. “Stark.”

“I know, but he wouldn’t, not on something like this.”

The Director nodded once, but didn’t relax. “That was a cluster, Phil. And now you’re telling me it’s even more of one?”

“Only as long as he remains free.” Phil nudged the still full glass away from him. “We’ll get him, Director.”

“You’d better. I’m about to have the FBI and CIA breathing down my necks.”

“The FBI has target fixation, that’s how they missed this.” He frowned. “The Skull was probably the spy.”

“Ten Rings was shut down three years ago.”

“He’s been working at Hammer Labs for five.”

Nick let out a long sigh. “If he’s been supplying terrorists-“

“We’ve been very lucky.” At the raised eyebrow, Phil shrugged. “He specializes in biochemical weapons. Hammer Labs doesn’t have clearance to work with those substances.”

“Probably how he stayed under the radar, completely changing his M-O.” The Director finally pushed his drink away as well, until the two glasses quietly clinked together. “Close this fast, Coulson. I don’t want him out there again.”

“Understood.” He rose and walked to the door. Hand on the handle, he paused and turned his head. “We both know someone who might know his go-to-ground plan.”

Nick squinted again, then let out a laugh. “I’ll make the call. And Barton won’t be happy.”

Phil opened the door. “He’s already not happy. This unhappiness will be mild in comparison to getting the plague.”

Nick didn’t laugh, but he smirked. “Get out of here, Agent.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Phil stepped off the elevator into the white-tiled hallway to find Natasha standing just outside autopsy. Her arms were crossed as she watched the movement on the other side of the windowed doors. Phil stepped up beside her and mimicked her pose. “Tasha.”

“Coulson,” she replied tersely, with no attempt to hide her accent.

“How is Director Hill?”

“Furious.”

Phil nodded. “She’s not alone in that.”

They continued their silent staring match, until Natasha glanced at Phil from the corner of her eye. “Three attacks with nearly a thousand dead. A thousand.”

“More.” She jerked her head his way. “He may have been assisting the Ten Rings.”

The Russian words she spat out was definitely not appropriate for mixed company. “I will skin him alive,” she finally hissed.

“We’d prefer if you’d wait until after he’s convicted.”

“This! This is not a joke!” She pointed through the window. “That is not a joke!”

“No,” Phil said with gravitas, “it’s not. Nor is it our place to play executioner.”

“Not your place. I am not a part of this agency.”

“It’s true. You’re not.” He glanced at her. “I’d prefer not to call in that marker.”

She didn’t flinch, but her eyelids fluttered for a moment, remembering how she’d had to kill Zemo, her mentor and handler at FSB, for siding with the enemy, for plotting to kill Coulson.

For killing James Barnes.

“We all have our ledgers,” he continued calmly. “Do you want to add his blood to yours?”

“It is a necessity.”

“We’re not here to do what needs to be done, not alone. We’re here for justice.” He nodded to the side, to the drawers of freezers in the far wall of the morgue. “For them.”

“Thousands demand justice.”

“And they’ll get it. When we catch him.” He turned to face her. “SHIELD is not in the business of executing terrorists.”

She met his gaze. “I’m not SHIELD,” she repeated.

At that, a corner of his mouth twitched. “Not yet.”

Before they could continue, the doors opened. “My friends, come in, come in.” Thor waved and headed back towards the table with papers from Interpol. “This case has taken a most unexpected turn.”

“To put it mildly.” Phil glanced over another autopsy table, where a sealed body bag rested, waiting to be opened. “Have you…?”

“Not yet. The remains were just delivered. I have been instead reviewing the Abomination files and the autopsy results. I do not believe the coroner erred given the state of the body.” He pulled out a photo of a charred, half-missing skull. The jawbone had a handful of teeth, no more. “The explosion set off the munitions in the car. It’s fortunate anything survived the blast.”

“How did he survive,” Natasha pondered, picking up another photo, this one of the mangled blackened husk of what was once a car.

“By disobeying common sense and declining to wear a seatbelt.” She blinked at Thor slowly, and he turned to the sole computer of the room. “The forensic team at Munich were quite thorough, and devised a simulation to ensure no culpability on the part of the pursuing agents.” He hit the play button on the media player on screen. A generic car graphic swerved and jerked and took turns on two wheels, all the while accelerating.

Even though he’d been there, Phil blinked when the simulation crashed into the impromptu barricade of police cars and exploded once, then once more, the artificial flames devouring the car and the lump of a body in the driver’s seat. It stopped a moment later. “Mind spelling it out, Thor?”

Thor nodded and pointed at the still image of the burning wreck. “The windshield was shattered in the explosion.”

“Not surprising, given the explosive yield within the vehicle.” Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t have had time to climb out.”

“He didn’t have to. The first explosion threw Mister Schmidt forward. The second,” he traced his finger over the screen parabolically, “launched him across the square.”

“The explosion and concussive wave blinded everyone,” Phil recounted. “The second explosion sent flames everywhere. There were five or six burn victims, not counting the two officers who died instantly in the crash.”

“And if he was across the way, acting the innocent bystander,” speculation tinged her tone, “the police would have interviewed him and moved on, none-the wiser. The bandages and damaged skin would have prevented any visual recognition.”

“The next question is how. Five witnesses swore up and down—including Jasper—that Red Skull was driving, with no other passengers.”

“Perhaps an error. However,” Thor slid a file folder over and flipped it open. Emil Blonsky’s picture stared up at them. “They shared eye and hair color, even their hair style was the same. Though their facial similarities ended there, in a speeding car, it may have appeared to be the Skull.”

“Coulson.” She was holding another picture of the car, this one of what had been identified as the passenger seat. She waited until he stepped over to look. “The report indicates the seat was reclined.”

“The perfect position to move contraband missiles.”

“Or hide someone in a car without stuffing them in a trunk.”

Phil lifted the picture from her fingers and looked over it and the notes. The fire had burned away almost everything useful. They only knew the seat position because half of it had blown away from the car and was quickly extinguished. “And the teeth?”

“The reconstruction was near fruitless, I am sad to say.” Thor glanced at the clock, then back to the folders. “However, we do have one resource that was missing back then.” He held up the one green folder, its label indicating it came from a dentist’s office.

“Schmidt’s dental records were on file.” Natasha let herself smile. “We had quite a bit of fun extracting that from him.”

Thor chuffed at that. “Yes, but I have obtained the records of his teeth since working at Hammer Labs.” He opened the folder, then placed it next to the ones Interpol had used years earlier.

Phil didn’t need medical training to spot the discrepancies. “How could they be wrong?”

“The Bureau—our Bureau—doesn’t get things wrong.” Natasha was glaring at the records, as if she could alter them by the threat of her wrath.

“The Skull had allies in many organizations, did he not?”

“Not in ours.”

“These records may indicate otherwise,” Phil chastised.

She snatched the Interpol file from the table and scrutinized it.

Phil let her walk off, ignoring her muttering, as Thor checked the clock again. “Whose records are they?”

“I suspect they belong to Mister Blonsky. His records had been expunged as part of his arrangement in Project Abomination.”

“A perfect substitute.” Phil glanced to the bag again. “When will you have confirmation?”

“Once Mister Rogers and I complete our autopsy.” He frowned. “Assuming he returns soon.”

A quick glance at his watch showed it was nearly one. He’d missed lunch again. “Steve isn’t usually late.”

“Aye. I am worried, but I would be notified were he in an accident. He is well known among my peers.”

“I’ll have Stark look into it.” He nodded to the body bag. “Please start without him.”

“Very well.” He set the folder down, then cleared his throat. Natasha glanced over her shoulder, but walked back to drop the records on the table before marching towards the door.

Phil followed her. “If it is Blonsky,” he started.

She swore softly, slapping the elevator button hard enough to rattle the cover. “Zemo was the agent who provided the dental details.”

Phil frowned momentarily, then pushed the admission aside. That headache belonged to Director Hill. “If it is Blonsky, where’s the money?” He stepped in as the doors parted for them.

Natasha slid in beside him, her anger transforming into concentrated thought instantly. “Millions of American dollars, even if I wanted to get back into the weapon’s trade, I wouldn’t do it here.” She thought. “Burn treatment recovery?”

“Black market doctor, maybe.”

“Except then he should have done the full reconstruction, become someone else.” She shook her head. “The pictures were of the same person, Schmidt and Red Skull. He hasn’t had any cosmetic work done.”

Phil glanced to the ceiling. “So where did the money go?”

* * *

“To posit,” Clint said, spinning his chair around before pointing a pencil at Bruce, “we have one dead jackass General, one dead terrorist who isn’t dead, and a boatload of money missing despite reports that another terrorist had run off with it.”

Bruce didn’t look up from his screen, eyes roving back and forth in time with his swiftly typing fingers. “That word, I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

With a flick of the wrist the pencil flew from Clint’s hand, skimmed Bruce’s hair, and embedded in the cubicle wall. “We’ve been over this. Movie quotes are my schtick.” Without missing a beat, he picked up another pencil from his desk and spun it between his fingers. “Now, if a terrorist did get his hands on Ross’ money—“

“Allegedly Ross’ money.”

Another flick, another pencil in the wall. “If he had the money,” he rolled his chair back and forth, crossing his arms, “why come back to the US? Why work as a security guard?”

“Maybe it wasn’t as much as rumors say,” Bruce frowned and his fingers pounded the keyboard momentarily.

“Million’s a million. There’s plenty of beaches he could disappear on with that.”

“With the burns, it would have drawn attention—agh!” He slapped his palm on the desk.

Clint frowned and stopped his shifting around. “What’s up?”

“The Pentagon is keeping the details of the Abomination Affair after-report classified.”

He snorted. “Of course. The big-wigs have kept those wagons circled for years.” He hopped from his seat, dashed over, and rested his hand on the back of Bruce’s chair. “How far have you got?” He peered at the screen.

“The firewalls, the logic bombs,” Bruce scrubbed a hand over his face, “even the bots.”

“Phys ed major, Bruce.” Clint let the joviality drain from his voice. “Bottom line?”

“I found the files.”

“The screen’s blank.”

“Someone’s redacted the files.”

“Well-“

“Digitally.”

“Oh.” Clint frowned. “Who could do that?”

“Other than a Four-star General?” The two exchanged a look. “Any of the Directors, FBI, CIA, SHIELD.”

Clint shook his head. “Fury would’ve shared the file if he had it after this morning.” At Bruce’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Later.” He leaned back, resting against the small bookcase behind the chair. “So someone has sticky fingers. Or is cleaning up after their mess.” He nodded towards the screen. “Can you find out who pulled it?”

“Already tried.” Bruce frowned, then started typing again. “Maybe I can cross-reference the access logs for the physical archive and narrow it down.”

“You’re kidding, right? They have, like, hundreds of people go through a day.”

“If they covered their tracks here, then-“

“Then maybe they left a small gap trying to cover their tracks in the office.” He slapped Bruce’s back. “Good thinking, man!”

Bruce smiled briefly before his full attention returned to his screen.

Strolling back to his own desk, Clint poked at his keyboard. “To posit,” he murmured.

“Barton.” Clint jumped out of his seat and turned, facing Director Fury at the top of the stairs. “Where’s Coulson?”

“Checking in with-“

“Thor,” Phil finished, rounding the corner by Bruce’s cube, Natasha hot on his heels. “MTAC,” he asked, looking up.

The Director nodded once and turned to leave. Phil rapped his knuckles on Clint’s desk as he power-walked by. A quick nod and hand gesture was all it took for Natasha to break off for her desk.

“Don’t we-“

“She has another report for FSB,” Phil jogged up the stairs. At the landing, he paused in front of the sealed steel door and looked Clint in the eye. “Behave.” Then he leaned forward, giving the retinal scanner a minute to register his presence. A heavy ‘thunk’ sound indicated the door was unsealed and he pushed it open, holding it just long enough for Clint to slip in after him.

MTAC, or the Multiple Threat Alert Center, had dedicated satellites and secure lines throughout the world, allowing SHIELD to get in contact with any military base on the globe, as well as with any agents that might be in the field. In addition to a handful of theater seats between two ramps on either side of the room, the front half of the left wall was made up of computer terminals and a central plasma screen. To the left of the main wall were three small boxes, each showing different local reports of crucial locales where missions were taking place.

The rest of the wall, however, was taken up by an enormous video projection, displaying a fair-skinned woman wearing a large winter coat and a beanie that revealed hints of brown hair just waiting to be unveiled. Her eyes were hidden behind wire-frame glasses, and she was looking off-screen, frowning at something. The frumpy look was necessary to survive the snowy weather behind her but only marginally concealed her beauty.

Clint felt himself grin, and as she turned towards the camera she bounced in place at spotting him. _“Clint!”_ Her grin was sharp. _“You owe me a spa visit with a handsome masseuse named Sven.”_

“How about a hug from our exceptionally strong coroner?” He kept grinning, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

She sighed dramatically. _“I suppose, you cheapskate.”_

“Only because you cleaned me out last poker session.”

_“That’s not all I cleaned last time-“_

Phil cleared his throat pointedly, and after exchanging a final smirk with each other, the two agents quieted. “Miss Lewis. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

_“Ugh, I know. You’d think he’d be better at this. Fortunately, he walked right in front of my car.”_

Phil didn’t sigh, but Clint could tell he wanted to. “I’ve told you about hitting rival agencies’ agents with your car.”

 _“Technically, it was a rental.”_ She glanced to the side, frowned again, then reached over and yanked the reluctant person into view. _“Loki Laufeyson, as requested.”_

Clint’s smile vanished instantly. The man on the screen, despite the black overcoat and elaborate silk scarf, was otherwise exactly as he remembered him from their last encounter. Cold green eyes, black hair slicked back, skin so pale the blue from his veins stood out, and of course, the sneer. Even now, despite his hands being cuffed behind him and an obviously bruised cheekbone, with just a subtle twist of his lips he conveyed his arrogance, his sense of superiority as plain as day.

Clint couldn’t help himself, and mocked, “What’s the matter, CIA cut you loose again?”

The smirk only grew, and Agent Darcy Lewis not-so-subtly stepped on his foot. He hissed. _“Agent Coulson, I’m lodging a complaint-“_

Despite the not-therapy, Clint couldn’t help the shiver down his spine at hearing that frigid accent again. When they’d last met, he’d been undercover, and so had Loki. When their paths crossed, to prove his loyalty, Loki had sold him out. He was captured and Loki, to further cement his position, tortured him, toyed with his mind, nearly—Clint swallowed—nearly broken him into nothing more than a shell.

Natasha had rescued him, dragging him across Budapest to a safe-house and hunkering down as Loki scoured the streets with the enemy, a price on both their heads. She put him together, carefully crafted a semblance of order from his shattered self. They were half-starved before they could escape, eleven days later, shooting their way out and nearly driving off a cliff in the process.

When they’d gotten home, Director Potts was furious with the CIA. Phil had actually had to talk her down from storming the building, only to turn around and do it himself. Clint still doesn’t know what happened at the top floors of that facility, only that when Phil had returned, he was there for Clint’s entire recovery and Loki was persona non grata with SHIELD and every other agency. It took a month before he could sleep through the night. Two more before he felt anywhere close to whole again.

“I’m very sorry your shins were bruised,” Phil said insincerely. “However, SHIELD is in no way responsible for your poor reaction time to stressful situations.”

_“She ran me down and punched me!”_

_“You were resisting arrest, totally justified,”_ Darcy said, shaking the man slightly. _“And blame the snow for the car.”_ Darcy’s attempt at innocence was undermined by the smirk she was sporting.

Clenching his fists, Clint took in a silent breath and let it out slowly. “What’re you doing in-“

 _“Classified,”_ Loki sneered.

_“Oh that is-“_

“Miss Lewis,” Phil interrupted, “please resist the urge to antagonize and prolong this very expensive and recorded transmission.”

 _“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”_ She glanced at Clint and quirked an eyebrow.

Clint subtly nodded at her, silently grateful at her attempt to even the score for what happened to him.

“Mister Laufeyson,” Phil continued, looking at the restrained man, “I need to ask you a few questions about the Abomination Affair, Red Skull, and-“ Loki’s laugh interrupted him. “Something amusing?”

_“Only that you think I had anything to do with it.”_

“Course you didn’t,” Clint shot back. “You prefer to get your hands dirty.”

Loki turned his attention to him, eyed him up and down. _“Remembering fond times, Barton?”_

Clint grit his teeth, but before he could say anything Phil stepped between them. “You collect secrets, Loki.” A scowl marred the features of the man on the screen. “And the Abomination Affair was nothing but secrets. You know something.”

 _“Perhaps.”_ He eyed Phil this time. _“Favors from me don’t come cheap, Coulson. What can you offer to make it worthwhile?”_

Phil merely stared the man down. “I advise against Agent Lewis taking you for a ride.” He waited a beat. “On the black ice.”

 _“Fair, but not really worth it.”_ He rolled his eyes. _“You’re dealing with the big boys, Agent, and getting banged up will be the least of my worries if this gets traced back to me.”_

“The big boys.”

Loki leaned back a bit. _“You really don’t know.”_ There was laughter in his voice. _“This is rich.”_

“Laufeyson,” Phil said cautiously.

_“No, no. Let me savor this. Agent Coulson is clueless, and needs my help. The man who threatened to put a bullet in my brain.”_

“Heresay,” was the neutral response.

_“Recorded.”_

“Never authenticated for admissibility with the Judge Advocate.” He stepped forward. “If I wanted you dead, Miss Lewis would have already pulled the trigger.”

 _“Not nearly as comforting as you think.”_ He settled back against Darcy’s grip. _“No, I don’t think you have anything worthwhile. I can’t help you.”_

“Don’t be so sure.” He walked over to the computer consoles and picked up an iPad. “There are three, no, four,” he tapped the screen, “four cartels out for your blood.” He slid his fingers across the device. “Oh look, a two million bounty for bringing your head to the Lord of Latveria. Three million if brought alive to the Don of the Octavius Family.” With each word, Loki’s smirk diminished, until he was scowling at the screen. Phil turned off the pad and raised an eyebrow.

_“Not very clean, Agent.”_

“Nothing’s clean in our line of work. It’s a regrettable fact of the job.” He stepped closer again and held up the blacked-out pad. “Almost as regrettable as it would be if your location was leaked to these very interested parties.”

Letting out a small growl at the hint of satisfaction in Coulson’s voice, Loki rolled his neck back and forth. _“What do you need to know.”_

Handing the device back to the agent at the computer console, Phil stepped away to stand by Clint. “The Abomination Affair. It appears that Red Skull didn’t die.”

_“About five years too late to make that a shocking revelation.”_

“You knew?!” Clint couldn’t help his outburst.

 _“Suspected. Certain departments always doubted the validity of the identification. The source of the records, after all,”_ he mocked, _“was revealed to be a triple agent.”_

“Would have been nice to know,” Coulson criticized. Loki shrugged. “Where’s the money?”

 _“Vanished.”_ He glanced up a moment. _“The General was cleared eventually, though his career stalled I’d heard. The money,”_ he frowned, _“the CIA wanted that money. Funny thing, it disappeared, laundered somewhere. Blonsky was the scapegoat, but the forensic accountants were able to trace it back to the States, where it got muddled…somewhere.”_

“So whoever laundered the millions stole it from the Skull.”

 _“Really?”_ Loki’s eyebrows raised. _“That’s gutsy.”_

“Explains why he was working as a security guard,” Clint said quietly.

_“Is that all?”_

“No.” Phil crossed his arms. “He ran before we could catch him. If he doesn’t have access to the money, what would be his plan?”

_“Call Miss Destiny, I’m not clairvoyant.”_

“No, but you once boasted about studying the psychologies of every target on the Most Wanted wall. We don’t have time to reconstruct it from scratch.”

Loki narrowed his eyes, but didn’t disagree. _“It may be outdated.”_

“Despite your…proclivities, you are one of the CIA’s best agents. You profile, analyze, and infiltrate by thinking like the enemy.” Phil’s complements held no praise, merely the tonal measure of a man reciting facts. “Compensate with the knowledge of facial burns, no access to excessive capital, and a recent murder.”

 _“Murder, huh? Not his style, but he might’ve gotten desperate.”_ Loki turned his head again, gazing off-screen to something in the distance. _“He has a few options. Running is futile, you’ll have his identity posted everywhere. Approaching whoever laundered the money may be dangerous too, if he has no standing in the organization.”_ He huffed and glanced at Clint. _“If he was the murderer, the victim’s family is fair game. He didn’t like to leave anyone alive to swear vengeance.”_

Clint swore silently and headed to the side, cell phone already out and texting Bruce and Natasha.

 _“And then,”_ he paused, _“then there’s the desperate gamble.”_

“What’s that?”

_“He knows you’ll identify him, he knows you’ll come after him and lock down his escape routes. If he’s desperate enough…well, the Skull was known to coerce reluctant victims by taking, ah, strategically advantageous hostages.”_

Clint came back over. “Bruce says Betty’s on the phone, and he has police on their way to keep her protected.”

_“If he’s fallen as far as it sounds, a hostage may be his only viable course of action.”_

“Not exactly encouraging.”

 _“That’s not my problem. Now,”_ he pulled his arms, _“am I free to go?”_

Phil mulled over his thoughts a few more seconds, before nodding. “Miss Lewis.”

_“Aww, but boss-“_

“Give him a ride to the next town over.” He nodded at Loki. “Experienced agent like him, I’m sure there’s no need for a seatbelt. He’ll want to jump out quickly.”

She grinned. _“Awesome!”_

_“Wait, Coulson!“_

Phil slid his hand across his throat and the signal abruptly cut out. He was already moving towards the ramp to the door, Clint on his heels. “He’d take someone convenient, but valuable. Someone we wouldn’t risk letting get hurt.” He opened the door and stepped out.

Erik Selvig was standing by the railing right across from him. “Finally!” He rushed forward and held out his phone. “Some lunatic has kidnapped Jane!”

On the phone screen appeared the picture of an unconscious Jane Foster, lying on a disposed mattress with her hands behind her back and a sign on her chest demanding safe passage from the city.

Lying next to her with blood-stained hair was Steve Rogers.

* * *

Tony was already dancing between keyboards when Phil and Natasha entered his lab. “I’ve got a trace going on the number and my totally-not-an-AI system scanning the background for any microscopic details the human eye can’t pick up. I’m also cycling through the camera feeds from when Rogers went to lunch to try and trace his path while JARVIS—I mean, the computer—is running facial recognition on local traffic and ATM stills to try and isolate Schmidt. Once Bruce, buddy, here,” he shoved a keyboard towards Bruce, “starts scanning through Foster’s financials, we should have a bead on this guy and totally kick his ass for abducting our favorite junior coroner.”

“Breathe, Stark.”

“Can’t, boss-man. Got too much to do and every minute I spend hyperventilating is another minute Steve and Foster are in a psychopath’s clutches. And I will not be responsible for Capsicle dying without experiencing at least one lap dance in his life. I have an obligation as a warm-blooded American male with the means and money to-“

“Just finished with Selvig,” Clint said jogging in. “When he arrived at the labs he insisted Jane grab a shower and lunch. He said her favorite is some place called Dum-Dum’s Diner, about a fifteen minute walk from Hammer Labs.”

“Bruce?”

Bruce scrolled down the screen. “I have it, a charge on her credit card at eleven-fifty-eight.” He quickly jumped browser screens with just a few taps of the keys. “Checking the diner’s finances…” He scowled. “Damn! Nothing from Steve.”

Clint snapped his fingers. “Not Rogers. Check the woman’s, his fiancé’s. Peggy Carter.”

“Fiancé, eh? Now he really can’t object to a night on the town.”

“Confirmed, Peggy Carter, charge at twelve-oh-one.”

“Same place, same time.” Natasha crossed her arms. “Taking two people? Not easy.”

A series of beeps from one of the screens snatched Tony’s attention. “Ah, good job, JARVIS.” He tapped the screen twice. “A Peggy Carter is registered at Lenox Hill Hospital, an ambulance arrived from the site of a hit and run.” The screen quickly scrolled down a chart. “Mild concussion, but otherwise no major injuries.”

“Where was the accident?” Phil stepped towards the screen.

It was Bruce that answered. “An alleyway, two blocks from Dum-Dum’s.” He zoomed in on the map. “A block and a half from a parking garage.”

“I have footage.” Tony switched the visual on the plasma from the image on Erik’s cell phone to a black-and-white photo from an ATM machine. “This is from a storefront across from Dum-Dum’s.” The timestamp indicated twelve-oh-four, and revealed Steve and Peggy departing arm-in-arm, walking beside Jane Foster, heading west towards the car garage. “That’s a little too disgustingly domestic.”

“Foster makes sense,” Bruce said, staring at the image. “Schmidt saw her daily, knew he could blackmail Selvig. Why grab Steve?”

“He was at the crime scene,” Clint answered. “A random civilian hostage involves local police and the FBI. Grabbing Steve makes it our jurisdiction, and providing an expendable-“

“Steve is not expendable,” Tony snapped.

“He is to Schmidt,” Natasha was also staring at the screen. “It lends credulity to any threats of violence and death. One hostage, if anything happens he loses his bargaining chip. With two…”

“Which just means I can’t—won’t—fail in locating them.” Tony slapped the screen. “The day I find out who invented burn phones is the day we find out if I can’t kill without leaving any evidence.”

“I can’t condone such sentiments no matter how much I agree, Stark.” Phil was watching the screens. “Given the time constraint, can we estimate where he might’ve taken them?”

“Time constraint? He’s had them three hours.”

“But Selvig received the image only forty-something minutes ago,” Clint prompted.

“Hmm. Assuming the abduction happened no later than a quarter past twelve, twelve-twenty…” Tony pulled up a map on the screen and started isolating the potential radius. “Add in time to hide any car, in case anyone spotted the abduction. And moving two bodies…” The image on the map contracted slightly. “Remove public locations…” Half of the city within the circle greyed out. “And we have…”

“Far too many ground to investigate,” Bruce sighed.

“Not to worry, Banner!” Tony thumped the table with his knuckles. “Now that we have a field of probability, we can focus our facial recognition search there. Schmidt can’t be so competent as to have missed every camera in the area.”

“He’s kept himself hidden for five years passing hundreds of cameras.”

Tony scrunched up his nose at Natasha. “None of that. No negative juju in my lab.” He waved to the door. “Go be depressed and Russian somewhere that won’t affect my machines.” Before she could respond another beep drew Tony back to the computer. “Steve’s phone just activated. Triangulating-“

A shrill ringing echoed around the room. Phil pulled his phone out, face blanking as he saw the identification. “Steve,” he answered blandly, hitting the speaker button, “Thor’s upset at your late lunch.”

 _“Don’t bother tracing the call.”_ The voice was firm, without a hint of a German accent. _“Kept a scrambler on hand from the good old days.”_

Phil glanced at Bruce, who shook his head. Tony continued typing, his fingers nearly blurred as he tried to override the Red Skull’s tech. “I remember those days,” he continued, even as Natasha tensed up. “As I recall, we chased you into a rather volatile accident.”

_“Not me, as I’m sure you’ve determined by now. And thank you.”_

“For what?”

 _“For reminding me that I need to repay you for your previous…kindness.”_ There were some muffled footsteps, followed by the sound of a boot hitting flesh. _“And I have one of your people right here to do so.”_

“I would prefer both Miss Foster and Mister Rogers return in prime condition.”

The voice on the other end cackled. _“Prime condition. Good term, detached. Coulson, was it? Yes, that’s how you’re listed on the phone. Agent Coulson.”_ More footsteps, and then a door closing. _“So tell me, Agent, what can you offer in exchange for these people?”_

“SHIELD does not negotiate with terrorists.”

_“I haven’t been a terrorist in five years.”_

“Because you faked your own death.”

_“I saw an opportunity to disappear and took it. You would do the same in my position.”_

“Just like a rat, abandoning a burning ship.”

 _“More than a rat—wait, I know that voice.”_ There was a sickle-sharp grin in his tone. _“Romanov! Still the black widow to the men of the world? Tell me, how’s your mentor?”_

She exchanged a swift glance with Phil. “Dead.”

_“A pity. We had good times, him and I.”_

“You broke his clavicle,” she hissed.

 _“Fair recompense for putting a bullet in my liver. And we made up. Old Baron Zemo.”_ Another cackle. _“The man who could be bought.”_ Natasha’s entire body went rigid before she stormed out of the room, Russian curses raining down upon the air as she went into the hallway. _“Oh dear. Did I hit a nerve?”_

Phil looked at Clint and nodded to the doorway. The man jogged out after the redhead and shut the door to the lab silently as Phil eyed Tony again. He was gritting his teeth, wrists vibrating as he fingers continued their work. “More than one.”

The humor went out of his tone. _“I’m capable of far worse.”_

“SHIELD still does not negotiate with terrorists.”

_“Then choose which one screams first. The pretty-boy or the scientist.”_

Shoving away from the desk, Tony’s hands landed on his head and he clenched his hair, pulling gently as he glared at the computer screens. Bruce was by his side instantly, guiding him to the adjoining office. Phil took a calming breath. “But as you’ve rightly pointed out, you haven’t been a terrorist in five years.”

There was a metallic trill down the line, the sound of a blade being unsheathed. _“That’s a good start.”_ The sound of a door being opened. _“I’m looking at them now, and—Mister Rogers? He looks good with a bit of red. I think he could stand a bit more upon his skin.”_

“That isn’t necessary.” He deliberately kept the worry and urgency from his tone. “As a man pushed to the edge, worried about being charged with murder, I can understand you…panicked, made some rash decisions.”

_“Pretty words. Too bad you don’t believe them.”_

“I don’t. But you and I, Mister Schmidt, we aren’t people prone to delusions, self or otherwise.” Silence answered him. “Tell me what you want.”

 _“You’re not an idiot.”_ His tone had turned flat. _“You know exactly what I want.”_

“To escape New York, blend in and vanish again.”

_“Can you make that happen?”_

“I can try.”

_“I suppose I can try not to plunge this blade into Rogers’ stomach and gut him like a pig.”_

“The one thing I can guarantee, Schmidt, is that if anything happens to either hostage, there’ll be nowhere you can disappear.”

 _“Careful, Agent. You let some of your emotions leech through.”_ Phil closed his eyes at the haughty superiority in the man’s tone.

“Do you have any demands? A car? A helicopter?”

 _“Something you can so easily track?”_ A derisive laugh. _“Do you really take me for a common robber? Or a senile old German?”_ There was a sharp intake of breath on the line. _“I was right. Red is most definitely Steve’s color.”_

Phil felt his blood run cold. He gently set down the phone on the lab table so he could clench his fists without fear of harming the device.

 _“Oh, don’t worry. It’s just a thin abrasion on his cheek. It won’t even scar.”_ Phil recognized the sound of the flat of a blade slapping skin. _“He’s a brave boy. He didn’t even flinch.”_

“Don’t do it again.”

 _“Then don’t take me for a fool,”_ he snapped back. _“I will not be so gentle next time.”_

“Message received.”

_“Good. I’ll make it easy. No vehicles, no money, not even a phone call. Simply remove the BOLO and travel alert you’ve set for me.”_

“I can’t guarantee you won’t be recognized.”

_“I said-“_

“Not to be insulting,” Phil interrupted, “but simply removing the alert won’t prevent anyone from stopping you. I’m worried what you’ll do with that.”

 _“That is not for you to worry about.”_ His smirk was evident. _“I have kept under your radar before, I can do it again.”_

Phil quietly weighed the request. “I need a sign of good faith.”

 _“One of the hostages, yes, I’m aware of how you people work.”_ Heavy footsteps again. _“It would teach you Americans not to be so presumptive, if I returned one on his last breath.”_

“You want to make me beg.”

_“I admit, the idea pleases me. You Agents cost me my face, my livelihood. Hearing you plead for the life of someone you care for—or an innocent, either one—would keep me warm many a night.”_

_“Don’t harm Jane,”_ Steve’s voice suddenly came over the speaker. _“I’m the SHIELD r-representative. If you h-have to har-“_

Another boot to flesh sound, this time resulting in Steve wheezing. _“A brave boy,”_ Schmidt repeated, _“if not too bright. If we had the time, I would enjoy making both of you beg for me, making both of you suffer.”_ The reminiscing quality vanished from his voice. _“Alas, tempus fugit. One hour, Agent Coulson, I’ll be monitoring the alerts. If you haven’t done as I requested…”_ Another kick, this time Steve yelped.

“Understood.” Phil looked at the map Tony had calculated earlier. “Then you’ll return the hostages?”

_“How you spend your time when I’m gone is none of my concern. Keep your end of the deal, and neither dies before I leave.”_

“You’re not giving me much to go on. Especially since there’s no trust.”

_“Trust is overrated. So is faith. Unfortunately, both are all you have. One hour, Agent Coulson.”_

The call disconnected and Phil watched his phone screen return to its main wallpaper before turning black. His fingers curled around the edge of the desk and a growl escaped from his reserved exterior. He shoved the table, tipping it enough that the metal legs clanged against the floor loudly. The glass door between the other half of the lab slid open and Tony stepped in, Bruce just behind his shoulder. Phil continued watching his phone. “Tell me you got something, Stark.”

“I tried. And I’m not giving up. I’m not. I just couldn’t listen to that-that-that-“

“In addition to the scrambler,” Bruce stepped forward, nudging Tony towards the computers, “he disabled the GPS locator on Steve’s phone. We can try to isolate cell-tower signals, see if any are from non-standard locations, but if he’s as good as he seems-“

“No. No, no, no.” Tony shoved Bruce’s shoulder. “No, he’s good, but we’re better. We have to be better. Hell, I know I’m better. I can crack this. I just need-“

“We have a time limit.”

“I know.” Tony huffed. “I know, I know and I will get you a location. I will!”

The main door opened and Clint stuck his head in. “All clear, boss?”

“Not for depressing Russians,” Tony yelled.

“Shut up, Stark,” Natasha said. “Thor says he has something.” Thor stepped through the door just after her.

Phil finally released the table and slid his phone into his pocket. “I need some good news, Thor.”

“I am not sure if this qualifies, Phillip.” He glanced to the map on the plasma before facing Phil again. “I reviewed the remains and can confirm that the deceased is indeed Emil Blonsky, also known as Abomination.”

“Kinda knew that with the call,” Clint poked verbally.

“I also reviewed the profiles compiled on the Red Skull.”

Tony snorted. “We just got a taste of that firsthand, big guy. Not much new to learn from that.”

“Would he actually go through with killing them,” Bruce asked quietly.

“Most certainly. The Red Skull shows no signs of empathy towards his fellow human beings and a propensity for pleasures of a sadistic nature. A review of past interactions, though, reveals a trend of keeping to his word,” Thor shook his head, “but only to those whom he deems have earned that respect.”

“Great,” Clint frowned, “so we have to hope he respects Coulson enough to not leave us a bloodbath to find.”

“No negativity,” Tony repeated.

Phil ignored them with a sigh. “Thank you, Thor.” The doctor didn’t move. “Is there anything else?”

“Given the situation, I thought to review the medical files of those involved. Mister Schmidt has left few files to locate, so I suspect he has utilized numerous false names to visit doctors. As for Mister Rogers, aside from an unfortunate dust allergy and minor anemia, there is nothing of note that may assist us.”

“Doctor Odinson,” Phil said warningly.

He held up the one folder in his hands. “Doctor Foster, along with the most beauteously formed acetabulum, has little of surprise in her file: some contents have been redacted,” he held out the open file to Tony, “by Hammer Laboratories.”

Phil frowned. “If there were any incidents in the lab, they would have to be detailed, regardless of the contents.”

“I thought as much, but a consultation with their Human Resources was most enlightening. Apparently, the medical details were classified as part of her hiring agreement.”

“Unusual,” Tony’s hands hovered above the keyboard, eyes dashing back and forth on the redacted paperwork. “But given Hammer’s propensity to claim any scientific advancement as his own, I’d bet she was working on something that he found interesting.” He started typing again.

Phil turned around, giving him plausible deniability over Tony’s illegal hacking. “What do you suspect?”

“I am uncertain,” Thor replied. “Given her later records, there are indications of a surgical scar upon her upper arm.”

“Considering Doctor Foster had little to no funding for her research, if she thought it was benign enough, she might have experimented on herself.” Clint pulled out his notes. “She never mentioned her own research, but communication and radio waves seems to be her focus.”

“Not her only focus,” Tony commented, hands waving in a small flourish.

Thor beamed. “You were able to access the files!”

“I didn’t hear that,” Phil replied even as he stepped closer to the screen. “What’ve we got?” As a group, they read the contents in seconds.

Natasha broke the silence first with a flat, “You’re pulling my peg.”

“Leg, Tash,” Clint said, glancing from the paperwork to Thor. “And I don’t think he is.”

Phil looked Thor in the eye. “Would it work?”

“I believe so.” The doctor kept reading. “The background details appear sound.”

A wide grin broke across Tony’s face. “Just give me five minutes.”

* * *

Johann Schmidt was outside of the room at the moment, so Steve took the opportunity to use his elbow and legs to shove himself towards Jane. The woman herself, eyes wide and breathing fast, was on the verge of panicking. He winced as the handcuffs keeping his arms behind his back bit into his skin. Johann obviously had no compunctions on letting them suffer while they were still hostages.

“Jane,” he hissed, “Jane.” There was a hitch in her breath. Steve felt his abdominals scream at his next inch along the ground. “Doctor Foster,” he huffed. “Doctor, I need you to focus. I need-” He sucked in a breath as his cheek burned, the slice from his ear to his chin split open again and dribbled down his face. “I-I need-“

The sight of his blood seemed to render her catatonic for all of a moment. Then she shook her head and took three deep breaths. “Stop moving.”

“Jane-“

“Stop.” She shoved her shoulder on the mattress she’d been lying on and shifted until she could sit upright. “You’re aggravating the wound.”

Another twinge in his stomach convinced him she was right. “Wounds,” he wheezed, letting himself collapse on the ground, curling up his legs as he lay on his side. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Worry,” she let out a soft, near-hysterical laugh, “we’ve been kidnapped by a night security officer who’s really a psychopath. You’re bleeding and I, I have the mother of all headaches.” She let her head fall upon the sheetrock wall behind her. “Where are we?” She glanced around the room.

Steve would’ve shrugged, but at another twinge of his muscles he decided to remain still. “I’m not sure. Somewhere abandoned.” They were at least on the second floor, since he’d seen the stairs leading down one time the door was open. The room itself appeared to be an abandoned office with a broken desk, windows covered in wooden slats, and dust and debris on the cold steel floor. The dirty mattress signaled the presence of squatters, but nothing else. “Warehouse, I think. His steps always echo.”

“Right. Where is he now?”

“Stepped out about,” he shut his eyes, brow furrowing, “I think I counted six minutes.” He blinked his way back to the dim room. “He seems to come by every ten minutes or so.”

That caught her attention. “How long have I…we…”

“I don’t know. We were both out for a while. I woke up when he used my phone to call SHIELD.” He shifted on his shoulder. “You’ve been out another…thirty? Thirty or forty. I lost count a couple times.”

“It’s good you tried. Sorry for freaking out.” She took another look around the room as Steve debated how to answer that. “Only one door,” she muttered.

“And no hairpin in sight.” At her raised eyebrow, he let his own low laugh escape. “Something my mother used to say. I had an unfortunate habit of leaving keys behind locked doors.” His grin was miniscule, though his ears flushed red. “She used to watch old serials, and the key to cracking any lock-“

“Was a hairpin,” Jane finished. She rattled her handcuffs and shifted her ankles as best she could with rope wound around them. “Very effective,” she evaluated.

“We’re probably not the first people he’s kidnapped.”

Before they could continue, heavy steps rang outside the door and Johann took up the open space, filling the gap with an air of menace. He took two steps in and planted his work-boot on Steve’s shins. The burns covering his head were inflamed, making his eyes seem sunken in his sockets and giving him a wholly inhuman appearance as he glowered at them.

“Mister Schmidt,” Jane started, but paused as Steve grunted, the man’s boot grinding down on Steve’s legs. “I know-“

“Nothing,” he replied calmly. “And most likely, you will learn nothing more.” He pulled a gun out from the back of the waistband of his jeans and held it towards the floor. “I regret to say it has been forty-nine minutes since I spoke with Agent Coulson.” He looked down at Steve. “He has yet to take any action concerning my request. I’m very disappointed.”

Steve took in a lungful of air and straightened himself as best he could. “He could still make the call.”

His grin was that of death itself. “Doubtful. I know men like him. He would wait until the last minute if he could, but even if he wanted to follow through, his superiors wouldn’t let him.”

“It could simply be a time-delayed reaction,” Jane spouted from her position. “He put out the request but it’s taking a while to disseminate. Even with the speed of communication these days-“

“I always hated your rambling,” he interrupted, pulling a clip of bullets from the pocket of his leather jacket and calmly loading it into the gun. “True genius is done with deeds, not words. You, you ramble because you lack any real talent.” He sneered as he looked her up and down.

She frowned, but didn’t rise to the bait. “He’ll meet your demands,” she finally said, “really. Just a few more minutes.”

“No, I don’t think he will. Even killing you will only strengthen his resolve to find me. You two are disposable.” He aimed his weapon at her.

Steve shook his head. “No, no, I’m the SHIELD representative-“

“Which will make it all the worse should they find me, to have a civilian dead, and their ‘agent’ begging for his life.” He turned his sneer upon Steve. “And you will beg, boy, for the hubris to think you,” he stomped down, making Steve cry out, “could ever influence me.” He stomped again, then turned his attention back to Jane.

Her back was stiff and she’d pulled her knees up, seeming to balance her weight on the balls of her feet. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Have to, no. Want to,” he shrugged, “oh yes.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve screamed as Johann pulled the trigger.

* * *

Phil parked the car a block away from the target, jumping out only a second behind Clint and Natasha. They ran quickly on foot, Bruce checking his cell phone every few strides. The area was industrial and, thanks to the current economy, completely abandoned. There were signs of vagrant habitation, a couple of drugged out kids, and plenty of broken windows among the large manufacturing plants and warehouses.

The warehouse they approached only minutes later had its windows boarded up, but the chain on the door had been cut and left dangling over one door handle. A glance at Bruce, who nodded, and Phil motioned with his hand for Natasha and Bruce to check the perimeter, find any alternative entrances. Clint eyed the second floor, then shook his head. “No upper entry point,” he whispered as he slid his back against the wall.

Phil mirrored his pose on the other side of the doorway. “Time?”

“Still got ten minutes to the deadline, boss.”

Phil’s head bobbed even as Bruce and Natasha radioed over their earwigs that they were in position. “High or low?”

“High. Easier to isolate, less likely for someone to stumble upon.”

“Damn.” Phil tested the door. The hinge remained silent. “Alright-“ A gunshot echoed above them. Into his wrist he shouted, “Go, go, go!” even as Clint ducked into the barely open door and made a bee-line for the nearest stairs.

Across the floor, Bruce and Natasha entered from the loading bay doors just as Johann stumbled out of one of the offices upstairs. “Schmidt,” Phil called, raising his weapon, “you’re surrounded!”

He had to duck as the man fired at him, taking shelter behind some remaining crates. From the feel, they were empty, waiting to be loaded and almost completely useless as cover. More shots were fired, and he heard Clint curse. He ducked and ran a couple boxes down, peeking out to find Clint pinned as the Red Skull fired each time Clint got a bead on him. “He’s running south.”

 _“Copy,_ ” Natasha said.

Bruce was working up another flight of stairs, angling to get to the office Johann had come out from, but like Clint had to keep ducking when a shot was fired his way. “Anyone have a bead on the hostages?”

 _“I think I see Steve’s boot,”_ Clint replied, taking a shot and nearly getting his ear clipped in the process. _“Bruce?”_

 _“Working on it,”_ the man made it two more steps up before he had to fall to his stomach as Johann unleashed a brief barrage at both him and Clint.

Phil took the opportunity to shoot, only to find the man was sliding down a rope. “Tasha-“

 _“Almost there.”_ Phil could see that across the floor the redhead had switched from ducking and weaving to outright running as Johann leapt the last ten feet, kicked out a plywood board, and dove through the hole in the wall.

It was enough time to let Bruce get to the top of the stairs. “I have them,” he called, not bothering with the radio. “Calling an ambulance!”

Clint was making his way back down when Phil caught his eye and nodded towards Bruce. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Clint to have Natasha’s back, but between the two of them Clint had a bit more medical training, and he wanted to make sure the hostages remained covered in case Johann doubled-back.

Returning to the front door, Phil checked the area, stepped out, and ran towards the edge of the building. He brought his weapon up as he rounded the corner, only to find cargo containers and abandoned trucks littering the area. Approaching the hole in the wall, he found Natasha’s weapon on the ground a few feet away. “Damn,” he muttered, then scanned the area.

He could just barely make out the sounds of fighting, though with the buildings, the echo effect made it nearly impossible to isolate. He cautiously made his way between the obstacles, rounding every corner with his weapon at the ready to take the Skull down.

He found them almost right by where they parked, Natasha dodging and kicking as Johann met her blow for blow. His records had indicated he was adept at fighting, but no one had ever conclusively proved it. Where Natasha’s fighting style was grace and fluidity with precise strikes to bring down any opponent, Johann apparently favored a mix of martial arts defense with pure brute force, taking hits so he could get close enough to land blow after blow. A highly effective, if dangerous strategy.

Unfortunately, it appeared to be working as he got Natasha in a grapple and locked his arm over her neck.

Phil stepped forward then, getting a bead on Johann’s head. “That’s far enough, Mister Schmidt.”

The man twisted around and repositioned Natasha to act as a body shield. “Coulson,” he rasped, “no, I don’t think so. You can’t shoot me without shooting her.” He ducked just enough to make the statement fact. “You wouldn’t risk your agent.”

“Shoot, Coulson,” Natasha said calmly. “End this.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“Killing you is worth it,” she spat.

“He still won’t. Men like him don’t have nerve.”

“You have no idea.”

“You really don’t,” Phil said, lined up his aim, and took the shot.

Johann didn’t hesitate, yanking Natasha up so the bullet went through her shoulder. They both cried out, but his grip loosened enough for Natasha to elbow the man in the solar plexus and drop out of his grip.

Phil took the second shot, but the man had already leapt behind another cargo container. He made to follow when the sound of a very large fist breaking bone reached his ears, and Johann staggered back into the open and fell on his ass. Phil was over in seconds and found the man stunned, his nose utterly crushed along with his cheekbones.

Thor stepped out from behind the container, hair blown in the wind and looking furiously at the fallen terrorist. “I will not,” he intoned, “allow myself or SHIELD to be disgraced by one of you again.” He cracked his knuckles, which weren’t even bruised from the impact. “We have already lost one teammate to a terrorist. To lose another would dishonor his memory.”

“Thanks for the assist,” Phil said, shoving the Red Skull onto his stomach, ignoring his pained groan, and handcuffing him. “Now how did you get here?”

“I presumed that medical services would be required and took it upon myself to arrive shortly after you.” He stepped over to Natasha, who had sat up and was holding her shoulder. Thor immediately covered the bleeding wound with his hands. “When I saw Miss Romanov fighting, I decided to intervene. My medical bag is behind the container.”

Phil stood, quickly grabbed the bag, and brought it over to the coroner. He could already hear the ambulance sirens. “Hospital.”

“I’m fine,” she ground out.

“I mean it.” He glanced at Johann. “Him too.”

“Yes boss,” she muttered, flinching as Thor pressed gauze to her arm.

Thor spared a quick glance to Phil. “What of Steve and Doctor Foster?”

Phil hauled the terrorist up and pressed him against the cargo container, using his own hand to staunch the flow of blood from the bullet wound in the man’s arm. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

* * *

Clint was leaning back against the wall trying to peer through the exam room blinds when Phil nudged him with a paper cup of hot water. Clint wrinkled his nose, but Phil shrugged. “Not even tea?”

“Best option there was,” Phil responded, sipping his own steaming water. “You’re looking a little nervous.”

Clint swirled the drink around. “It’s just, sometimes it seems like we’re too late.” He nodded towards one of the rooms hidden behind blinds. “If we’d just looked earlier, found out about her research sooner…“

“Sub-dermal trackers rarely have a widespread broadcast range. It was a shot in the dark that her first prototype would both work and be detectable. We’re lucky she’s a genius,” he grimaced, “and a bit absentminded. Anyone else would’ve removed the device years ago.”

“Testing wear and tear,” Clint quoted from the file, before groaning. “Damnit.”

Phil followed his line of sight and put on a vaguely pleasant smile. “Mister Barton. Can I help you?”

Barney, dressed in an identical suit from the other day, scowled at his brother before turning it upon Phil. “I hear you caught Red Skull. I’m here to take him into custody.”

“Mister Schmidt is currently receiving treatment for injuries sustained during his arrest.” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Unless the FBI is in the habit of denying terrorists medical assistance.” He paused. “On US soil.”

“We have our own doctors.” Barney pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket. “Orders to turn him over to me.”

Phil didn’t bother taking the paperwork. “When we’re finished.”

“The Red Skull-“ A nearby nurse glared at their group and shushed them. Barney’s cheeks flushed, but he lowered his voice, “Schmidt is wanted on international crimes. He was caught here, and we want to make sure we get the first bite.”

“You want the egg off your face for the botched identification of his corpse,” Clint muttered. “Your best forensics were so sure that burnout was the Skull, convinced everyone else-“

“Regardless,” he said through clenched teeth, “of why, the orders stand.”

Phil’s gaze landed just over Barney’s shoulder. “It’s a SHIELD issue. Once we’ve tied him to our murder, we’ll turn him over to you.”

“Political corruption beats murder!“

“Not,” an authoritative voice responded, “when we may have the murderer in custody.”

Barney gnashed his teeth and turned to face the man in the long leather trench coat. “Director Fury,” he held out the orders, “I have orders to take the prisoner. Now.”

Nick took the orders, read through them, then folded them up and tore the sheet in half. “Our collar, our custody. And don’t,” he pinned Barney with a glare, “bother my agents again. You’ll get the Skull when we’ve wrapped up our case.”

“The Director-“

“Can kiss my ass.” Nick crossed his arms. “SHIELD’s authority is clearly spelled out. Until I hear from higher up, we determine when we’re done with the prisoner.” He snorted. “And I doubt the Director would wake the President for this.”

Barney ground his teeth further, before snatching the torn papers from Nick’s fist and marching out of the unit.

Phil crossed his own arms, water carefully balanced in his grip to prevent any spillage. “The FBI can kiss your ass?”

“You bet. Director Hill has already called me from Moscow and if I let this bastard vanish before she could tear him a new one? It’d be my ass on the line.”

Clint raised his hand. “Is this a yellow-light situation? Because this is feeling like that sexual harassment seminar demonstra-“

“Shut up, Barton.”

“Shutting up, sir,” he said with a small grin.

Nick huffed and let his gaze rove the area. “So where is he?” Phil spun on his heel and nodded towards a closed door with a guard in uniform standing before it. “One guard outside? Windows covered?”

“Romanov is recovering in the room, and he’s restrained.” Phil took another sip of his water. “In his condition he’s no threat.”

* * *

When Natasha opened her eyes, it was to the sound of a handcuff closing and her codeine drip being turned up. Johann, arm bound in a sling, shoulder covered in bandages, and plaster across his face loomed over her with a sneer. “As if,” he hissed, “a bullet and some handcuffs would slow me down.”

Her non-restrained arm was bound and held in place by a sling exactly like Johann’s, so she struggled to hit the call button with her elbow. “You,” she slurred, “won’t escape.”

He reached behind her head, felt through the wires, then yanked out the cord connecting the bed to the wall. “Escape?” His lips peeled away in a snarl. “I don’t care about escape.” He pressed against her injured shoulder, making her cry out softly. “Not when I can finally pay back Zemo.”

“Zemo,” she panted, “was a good agent.”

“And yet you shot him. You killed him.” He let up on the pressure and she went slack. “Hard to believe, given our situation.” He looked her over. “He always said you were short-sighted. Never believed him, until now.” He pressed down again. “A guard outside, a set of handcuffs, some bruises, and you thought—presumed—that I was harmless.”

“Had,” she choked, “had to keep an eye on you.”

“Excellent work. In fact, you’re doing such a good job,” he shifted his hand so he could wrap his fingers around her neck, “that I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

“W-why?”

“You killed Zemo. He was a good double agent, very supportive as long as I could pay his price. And I always could.” He leaned against the side of the bed. “He hated you. He had dreams of slitting your throat on an op, or maybe selling you to another agency. Red Room was his favorite, although Ten Rings was a close second.” He tightened his grip suddenly. “And then you killed him.”

“Ha-had to be on-, on-, one of us,” she gasped out.

“Pity it was you. But I’ll rectify that soon enough. That shall be far more liberating than any escape.”

“You’ll,” she tried to suck in some air, “you’ll rot. For my murder. The General’s.”

“The General? Ross?” He chuckled darkly. “The biggest fool of all. I spoke with him four times face-to-face. He never recognized me once. Each time we spoke I laughed. Laughed when I heard he was dead, too. Not me, though.” He grinned. “I want to make sure my record’s straight. Now you? Oh, I’ll be killing you, but I won’t be imprisoned long. Friends in high places, and the American justice system is disgustingly corrupt.”

“H-hammer can’t save you. H-he-“

“Is a child,” he spat. “Arrogant in assuming the power and wealth he’s accumulated is anything more than an illusion. He will fall no matter what happens to me, the plans are already in motion.”

“Th-then-“

“Stupid girl.” He squeezed and her eyes rolled back. “You’re an investigator, and yet you never even thought to check who was bankrolling Hammer’s lawyer.” He leaned down and whispered, “Here’s a hint, it’s the same man who will ensure I get off with a bought judge and a technicality.”

“St-St-Sta-“ she choked again and finally squeaked, “Stane.”

“Bright enough after all. Too bad the knowledge can’t help you.”

She let out a quiet sigh. “Ditto.” Johann only had a moment to look befuddled before Natasha head-butted his bandaged nose, twisted out of his grip and slammed her heel into his throat. By the time he was on the floor choking, she had slipped out of the handcuffs and crossed the room. He was just making to crawl up when she knocked on the door and stepped aside. Instantly the guard, a doctor, and Phil were in, the guard and doctor grabbing the man on the ground. Phil tilted his head to get a good look at her neck and once-again bleeding shoulder. “You get it,” she asked, slightly hoarse.

Clint stuck his head around the corner, stethoscope in his ears and hand pressed against the glass. “Every word.”

Phil rolled his eyes, brushed the disconnected medicine tubes aside, and slipped the recording device from beneath Natasha’s pillow into his hand. “You okay?”

“I will be fine,” she coughed. Clint handed her an ice pack and waved over his shoulder. A nurse showed up moments later and she glared at him. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” the woman replied, already checking her red-stained bandages. “Your stitches burst.” Her hand guided Natasha to tilt her head up and around. “I need to check for further injuries. You’ll be staying the night, now.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes, first at the nurse, then at Clint. “You,” she intoned as heavily as she could, “will pay.”

“Stop speaking,” the nurse advised, leading her out of the room. Clint waved happily.

Phil stood by his shoulder. “Next sparring session you’re going down.”

“Worth it,” he hummed, before letting his grin diminish. “She doesn’t take care of herself enough.”

“I wouldn’t have let it come to any real danger.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t,” Nick cut in. “Fortunately for the two of you, Director Hill agrees with your methods. Otherwise you’d both be on a one-way flight to Russia with my boot-print on your asses.” He glanced at the recording device as he led the two agents away from the Red Skull’s room. “Is it enough?”

“Stane’s implicated in the corporate espionage, and it appears Mister Vanko’s somehow a part of this. Not sure if we can prove an affiliation with weapons sales.”

“I can.” As one the three turned to find Tony strolling in, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. “Funny thing, I was going over those files the FBI left, and really, it’s just sad.” He poked his thumb over his shoulder, where Barney Barton was storming back in, face red. “Like I told the purple dinosaur, their forensic accountants are worth shit.”

Barney grabbed Tony by the scruff of his shirt, only to find his own collar in the grip of his younger brother. “Release the genius,” Clint said lightly, “for your own good.”

“Or what,” Barney growled, “you’ll beat me up?”

“No.” He let go of the shirt and stepped away. “I’ll simply watch as Tony, the foremost forensic genius of our time, takes you out without anyone being the wiser.” He tilted his head to the side. “Well, me; but I won’t tell.”

“Appreciated,” Tony said.

Clint nodded back. “Besides, Tony’s already got someone to defend him.”

Barney inhaled, ready to yell, when an iron grip wrapped around his wrist and he found himself face-to-face with Bruce. “Let. Him. Go.” The combination of the glower, the quietly powerful voice, and intense pressure was enough to make the FBI agent hesitate. Slowly, one by one, his fingers released the scientist’s shirt. Bruce’s fingers blushed white and Barney winced, and then his hand was his own again. Bruce glanced over his shoulder. “You okay?” The simmering rage a moment ago vanished, exhaustion replacing it instantly.

“Bruce, baby, buddy.” Tony held up his palm. “That. Was. Awesome.” Tiredly, Bruce gave Tony the high-five he was seeking. “Seriously. Way to use that inner anger you’re always talking about.”

“Tony,” Phil was pinching the bridge of his nose, “before the hospital staff throws us out, could you please tell us what you found?”

“What? Oh, right, yes.” He glanced at Director Fury, whose annoyance was as palpable as Phil’s, if more visible. “So, the FBI had on file that Anton Vanko was the PAC treasurer. If they had bothered to dig into the confidential donations, though, they would’ve found the man had made quite a contribution to the fund.”

“Campaign donations are anonymous.”

Tony snorted. “In this day and age? Nothing’s anonymous. Funny thing, though, we dug and dug for a connection with Stane. Should’ve looked at his lawyer.” He nudged the elder Barton. “Seems the money your bosses gave to General Ross ended up in his hands.” He crossed his arms. “And Stane’s campaign fund.”

“You can prove it,” Barney demanded.

“Foremost forensic genius of our time,” he sang back.

“Doesn’t mean Stane knew,” Bruce argued. Both Bartons rolled their eyes.

“Ah, but once I was in—Steve!” Like a puppy, Tony’s attention was immediately upon the young agent, and he cut between Nick and Phil to grab the man into a hug, before wrapping his arm around Steve’s neck. “Oh, that sucks,” he hovered a hand over the bandages on the side of his face. “I heard you, though. Awesome job, Capsicle. Would’ve made any real Captain proud.”

“Stark,” Fury barked.

“What?” He turned, still holding onto Steve. “Right. Campaign finance. More anonymous donations. Plenty of shell companies, and deception upon deception. Except,” he scowled, “each payment was shortly before the terrorist group Hydra came out with some new advancement.”

Barney hissed. “Hydra? That son of a bitch.” He already had his cell phone out. As one the SHIELD agents pointed to the sign on the wall requesting no cell phone usage inside. He ignored them, eyes still on Tony. “You’re sure?”

Keeping one arm around Steve, he dug in his pocket and tossed a new USB stick which Barney snatched out of the air. “All there. About as concrete as I can get it. Also, that video is for your accountant team. Just a little victory dance. And maybe some mocking. Belittling.” He paused. “Actually, it’s pretty funny, you can watch.”

“Delete the video,” Phil said, ignoring Tony’s outraged objection. “Good enough to leave the Skull with us for a while?”

Barney nodded slowly. “We’ll still want him. But,” he tapped the stick against his palm, “I think my job just got a hell of a lot more complicated.” He turned, pocketing the device and muttering, “Hydra. Not a threat my ass…”

Nick ran a hand over his face. “Right. I’d better alert the Joint Chiefs of a potential new inside job. And the looming senatorial probe.” He turned his attention upon Steve. “You good, son?”

“I,” he flushed, glancing at Phil, “I’ll be fine, sir. Just doing my duty as a SHIELD agent. Sir.”

“Try to do it with fewer injuries next time. SecNav’s already pissed we broke one coroner assistant.”

“Right,” Steve answered, tone befuddled, “I’ll…do my best, sir?”

“Good.” He nodded at Phil, then turned on his heel and left with a gentle flap of his coat.

Steve stared after him, before shaking his head slowly. “Agent Coulson.”

“Mister Rogers.”

He hesitated, but Tony shifted his position and more of his weight was now upon the slighter man. “I know I missed a bit, but no one’s answered how—I mean,” he swallowed, “they won’t say if Jane...Doctor Foster. She was just lying there.”

“Thor can probably tell you best. He’s spent the last hour with her.” Steve took in a sharp breath.

“Not like that,” Clint quickly assured him. “He saw you were in good hands, but she was a bit…”

“Doctor Foster,” Thor’s voice emerged from behind them, joyous if subdued, “rests quietly with minimal injuries.” With a small wave Tony abandoned his position and Thor settled his hands upon Steve’s shoulders, assessing his assistant. “You were quite brave, Steve.”

“Just doing my job,” he repeated, blushing once again.

“You have done far more than what your position demands. Commendable, though I lament the condition upon which you return.” Steve ducked his head. “I shall take you home, where you must rest. I shall not enjoy autopsies without our grand debates.”

Steve’s arm curled around his stomach. “And you’re sure Jane’s okay?” The others were just as interested in the question.

Thor’s smile grew brighter. “A scholar she may be, but a warrior’s heart beats within. To launch herself at the very man who held her at gunpoint, she is a remarkable woman.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulders gently. “Had you not bucked the villain’s stance as she made her move, I doubt slamming her shoulder into his abdomen would have been nearly as successful as it was.”

“Felt more like a fish outta water, flopping my legs. And then he tumbled out of the room and she hit her head-“

“Aye, a mild concussion, but all signs indicate she will recover.”

“That’s great news,” Phil said, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “That just leaves one issue to resolve.”

The group exchanged lost looks, before Clint slapped his palm to forehead. “Crap. I almost forgot.”

* * *

“Schmidt didn’t kill the General,” Clint explained as he and the others sat in a circle in the middle of the bullpen, back in the office. “And our suspect list just went from terrorist to nil.”

Bruce groaned, letting his chair slide back a bit as he tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling. Phil had gone upstairs to check-in with the Director. Natasha was still at the hospital and Thor had returned to the morgue to review the psychological profiles. Steve, despite his injuries, had insisted on seeing the case through to the end, and accepted the chair Tony rolled over so he could partake in the group ‘campfire’ discussion.

Tony, chewing on a chocolate flavored protein bar, pursed his lips. “Sure the guy wasn’t lying?”

“A guy like that lies all the time,” Clint countered, “but not about this. Killing the General would be a point of pride.”

“He’s right,” Bruce agreed, speaking to the ceiling. “The General is the one that lead to his disfiguration in the first place. Killing him would be apt revenge, and he wouldn’t hide it.”

“So,” Steve said, leaning back in his seat, “does that mean you’re left with nothing?”

Clint pointed at Bruce. “The missing Abomination file-“

Bruce shook his head. “The CIA ordered the purge of the files. Agent Laufeyson’s the last man to enter the records room before the file vanished.”

“Bastard was probably covering his ass,” Tony grumbled. “Or coveting the millions.”

“In other words,” Clint huffed, crossing his arms. “Yes, square one. We’ve ruled out his aides. We’ve ruled out the military. You didn’t find any indication Stane’s involved, right?” Tony nodded at his question. “Which leaves us with bubkis.”

Bruce slid his notepad from the edge of his desk over, picked it up, and tapped its cover against his palm. “It leaves us,” he said slowly, righting himself in the chair, “with an attack of opportunity. Not planned, not because he found out something he shouldn’t…” He flipped open the pad. “Someone he pissed off, maybe.”

Tony snorted. “That narrows it down.”

Clint leaned forward. “Yeah, actually, it does. Security video was compromised, but not the card scanners, and not the external alarms. Ross was planning on letting Barney into the building.”

Tony sat back against the desk, drumming his fingers against it. “Alarms were still rigged. I mean, I could break into a place like that, but the layman couldn’t.”

“So it’s someone inside,” Steve said, “someone who was already there.”

“Or who only said he’d arrived after the fact.” Tony nodded upstairs. “Pym said he arrived after the murder took place. Doesn’t mean he did.”

Steve bobbed his head once, then winced. “And he’s the only one without an alibi in the area.”

Clint snapped his fingers, pointed at Steve, and stood up. “Good thinking. I’ll call holding, get him back for another interview.”

Bruce cleared his throat as Clint picked up the phone. He was staring down at a page of his notes. “He’s not the only one.”

“Only one what,” Steve asked.

“Without an alibi.”

* * *

Phil had his hand on the interrogation room’s handle when he stopped, pulled it away, and raised an eyebrow as he turned to his left.

Bruce, standing beside him, ducked his head. “I know it’s not how we usually do this, boss, but,” he stopped as Phil held out the file folder. “You don’t mind?”

“I can evaluate his reactions as well as you can from the observation room.” He glanced to the door. “You think you can break him?”

Bruce looked down. “No.” He took a deep breath. “But I can sympathize. Empathize. I’ve been there. Been here.” His lips formed into a twisted smile. “There but for the grace of God,” he quoted.

Phil shook his head. “You’re too good a person, Bruce. You never let your anger take control.”

“But I’ve wanted to.” He tilted his head towards the door. “That’s how I know I can get him to talk.”

Phil nodded once. “Then I’ll leave it to you.” He walked just a few steps down the hall and entered the room that would be on the other side of the mirror.

Bruce took one calming breath, then a second, before finally straightening his jacket and opening the door.

Erik Selvig turned towards him instantly, hands gripping the back of the chair across from the mirror. “I don’t have time to be here. I should be watching over Jane-“

Bruce shut the door behind him and took his seat across the table. “Our coroner, Doctor Odinson, has volunteered to check in on her.”

Erik grunted. “I’ll bet he did. I saw how he was looking at her in the hospital.”

“I’m sure he has nothing but honorable intentions.”

“Hrmph.” Erik stared at him, before finally pulling his chair out and sitting down. “Still, I shouldn’t let them spend too much time together. I promised Jane’s father-“

“Yes, she told me.” He folded his hands together on the table, looking the doctor in the eye. “You’d do anything to protect her.”

“Of course. Well,” he said gruffly, “within reason.”

Bruce nodded. “And if General Ross had cut D-O-D funding, it wouldn’t be just your project on the line, but Jane’s future. Hammer made you sign away all research to him.”

Erik leaned back and waved at the mirror. “I would have found work. For Jane, at least. I’ve had a long career.”

“You have.” He glanced down to the folder. “I did some of my research based off your early work in astrophysics.”

“You?”

“I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Doctor Bruce Banner.”

Erik sat up again. “Really? Your thesis on gamma radiation-“

“Was funded by the D-O-D,” he interrupted, “with oversight by General Ross.” Erik’s jaw snapped shut. “Who also happened to be my girlfriend’s father.”

Unfolding his arms, the scientist rested them on the table. “That must have been,” he mulled it over for a moment, “terrible seems too light a word.”

Bruce let out a rough laugh. “Gut-wrenching. Soul-rending. My entire future dependent on a man who hated anyone his daughter brought home.” He ducked his head. “And intent on turning my research into a weapon.”

At that, Erik scowled. “You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” He sighed. “I refused.”

“Good.”

Bruce let out a heavy sigh. “He chased me away from his daughter, tried to seize my research. I fought tooth and nail and by the time I was finished…”

Erik nodded, staring over his shoulder. “Yes. You could do more research, but the passion, the love…”

“It was the worst thing he could do, not only tearing my heart apart, but also making me hate my own work.”

Erik shook his head. “No. No, it is not the worst.” He turned his stare upon the table. “The worst…”

Bruce waited, but the man didn’t seem inclined to continue. He finally pulled his hands back far enough to open the folder. “The worst was your first encounter with him. Another D-O-D project?”

Erik glanced up, then back down. “Yes. Nuclear power had finite applications. Improving, or even discovering a new form of energy, would bring untold advances and a golden era to America. And we were making progress. A new way to contain the radiation, to transform it. It just needed some development, some refinement.”

“General Ross was in charge.”

Erik’s entire demeanor darkened as he glared at the paperwork in front of Bruce. “He was a new General then, someone who thought the money was better used to make stronger weapons, better weapons. It wasn’t what we had signed on for, but he didn’t care, he didn’t listen,” he snarled.

Bruce turned the page in the folder, revealing an incident report sheet, General Ross’ signature bold and obvious at the bottom of the page. “There was an accident.”

“Accident!” Erik slapped his palm onto the table. “I told him, I told the Commander, I told everyone to stop. The shielding wasn’t finished. It wasn’t designed to work in a weaponized capacity.” His teeth clenched. “They discharged me from the program, took my research. The General,” he growled, “personally oversaw the stripping of my lab and escort to the state line.”

“He kept your research and your assistants.”

He slammed the table again, but his shoulders slumped. “They were good people. Samantha had a daughter, an ill sister. She couldn’t…” He swiped a hand over his face. “The General used that to make her stay. James he simply intimidated.” He looked back to the mirror. “They would not have been there except for him.”

“The report says they failed to take proper precautions.”

“Ross covering his ass.” He pointed at Bruce. “They were good people. Good scientists! They’d never,” his hand made a slicing motion, “never cut corners, never disregard protocol. He pushed for that project, wanted a new weapon, and disregarded the danger to them. They were nothing to him. Scientists were nothing to him. He destroyed lives.”

“And then you ended up working with him again,” Bruce said sympathetically.

“Hammer is an idiot. He presumed our value was too great for the D-O-D to cut funding. And then Ross walked in. I knew,” he sighed, “I knew it would only be a matter of time.”

Bruce closed the folder. “Except this time, he would take Jane down with you.”

He scrubbed his face again and shifted forward in his seat. “You understand. Jane would lose all interest, all love for the work. I couldn’t touch any research in physics for years, afraid for…afraid that…” He took a fortifying breath. “I couldn’t let him do that to Jane.”

Bruce leaned forward himself. “I gave up, after my thesis. Changed my major to computer science. He’d...sullied it. I couldn’t touch it, but I wouldn’t let anyone else, either.” He shared his own scowl. “I hated him, though. Sitting through those hearings, what he said about my work, my character. I wanted to just explode with rage. To take that smug, condescending face and slam it into the table over and over.” He clenched his fists for a moment, before forcing them open finger by finger and laying them flat on the table. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I thought he deserved it. But…I couldn’t stop thinking of Betty, how I’d be hurting her father.”

“Then you are a better man than I,” Erik said solemnly. “To keep your work from falling into the hands of that monster.” He stopped talking then, the distance returning to his gaze. “For not becoming one in your anger,” he finally finished softly.

Sliding the last page out from between the folds of the folder, Bruce placed it in the center of the table, pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and laid it before Erik. “You have the right to a lawyer,” he said evenly.

The doctor glanced at the paper. “You’re asking me to waive that right.”

“He was terrible,” Bruce countered, “a bully and a nightmare. You’re right. He was a monster, one that continues to haunt me, even now.” He picked up the pen and held it to Erik. “He was also a father, and no matter how much we despised him, she loved him. He was her only family. And now she has no one.”

“He cared nothing for those he victimized. He let those scientists die without a single thought to their children!”

“And you’ve seen firsthand how devastating that is.”

Erik visibly deflated, slumping back in his seat. After a beat, he sluggishly plucked the pen from Bruce’s hand and scrawled his name on the waiver to an attorney.

Bruce took the pen and the form back, tucking them both into the file folder. “What happened that night?”

“Jane was asleep, exhausted. I figured I could give her an hour or two. I left, to get something to eat. Hammer keeps the best coffee to himself, and there’s always pastries.” He held up his hand, as if it were holding a handle. “I had borrowed the sledgehammer from another lab, Doctor Bradley’s, for—well, great lab and all, but Hammer could be cheap when it came to durability tests.” His smirk was humorless. “Bradley and I have an understanding about borrowing each other’s equipment. I was on my way when I heard…” He went silent again. “There were rumors. Man like me, in my job, I learn to listen when it’s funding related. And there he was, with that arrogant, demanding tone…”

Bruce eyed him up and down. “You’d been sleep deprived for days.”

A bitter laugh answered him. “Because of him. All our efforts, futile, because I’d heard—I knew—he would end the funding again. Hammer would keep the work and Jane, Jane would have nothing. At the time,” he swung his wrist, “it just seemed…so much easier. And then he was lying there, and I just walked off.” He frowned. “It should not be so easy, to feel nothing after taking a life.”

“There weren’t any fingerprints.”

“Latex gloves. I was going to break into my boss’ office.” He sighed. “I keep a spare set of clothes. Jane slept through the entire thing, hadn’t even noticed I’d changed.” He collapsed back, exhausted. “I think,” he finally enunciated, “I’m ready to go now.”

Bruce stood, sliding the file into his hand. He stopped by the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Erik responded, “but for the wrong thing.”

Bruce let the door fall shut quietly behind him.

* * *

“I still don’t understand,” Steve said, walking haltingly down the hall with Phil at his side. “The urge for revenge I get, but doesn’t the sleep deprivation mitigate the circumstances? I mean, in his right mind…”

Phil paused his stride. “You’ve worked here for four years, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many times have you ended up not sleeping? That case with the plane crash, you and Thor worked four days straight.”

Steve groaned. “God, don’t remind me. The one time I actually told Doctor Odinson to shut up.”

“Your exact words were, ‘Doctor, I respect your opinions and knowledge but say one more thing and I will stab you in the eye.’” Steve colored at the quote. “You didn’t actually stab him,” Phil pointed out.

“Of course not! I may have been sleep deprived but—oh.” He rested his shoulder against the wall. “But, that wasn’t complicated by years of resentment, of blaming a man for the death of some friends.”

“And why should that matter? To Betty Ross, justice is needed for her father, which will be mete out at the hearing.” Phil rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “General Ross may have seemed terrible to many, but he was also serving his country.”

Steve sighed. “Doctor Selvig-“

“Will get a defense, and make a proper statement to the judge when the time comes.” He started walking again, and Steve ambled after him. “Remember, though, NCIS investigated the incident Selvig mentioned, as did the FBI.”

“Not every team is as successful as yours.” He stuttered. “O-ours.”

“And you can be sure Selvig’s attorney will be investigating the results of that case to determine if the General had any culpability we missed, if there was any corruption or favoritism in the final determination.” He turned to face Steve. “There is no clean finish, Steve. Our part of this is done, yes, but unlike television, there are other steps. An evidentiary hearing to begin with. Will the confession help? Sure. But that doesn’t mean Selvig is a villain, nor does his death make Ross a hero.”

“Peoples is peoples,” Steve muttered.

“We’re complicated. It took Thor decades to understand that, even longer to become as good a forensic psychologist as he is.” He offered the younger man a small smile. “You can’t catch up in a single case. Just keep learning. Eventually, you’ll get it.”

“What about you?” Steve turned the corner, Phil keeping pace. “Do you get it?”

Phil merely smiled wider and stopped at the banister, looking down to the first floor.

Beside him, Steve yelped as he saw that both Clint and Tony were talking with Peggy. Phil only slapped him on the back as he swiftly stumbled towards the elevator.

Phil watched him a minute, then headed down the stairs, listening in as he went.

“So I was thinking,” Tony said, half-empty Caf-Pow in his hand, “now that Steve’s getting married, he needs a stag night. The mother of all stag nights. He’s led a very sheltered life.” Tony pouted at their guest. “And really, it would do you a disservice to receive someone so unworldly.”

“It’d be tasteful,” Clint added, leaning against the front of his desk, arms crossed. “A few strippers, some jello wrestling, gambling-“

“You’re welcome to join us,” Tony added, eyebrows waggling. “I’m sure you and some of the USO gals from Steve’s old career could-“

“Stark,” Phil said walking by, “I’d hate to have to accidentally discharge that taser.” He took a seat at his desk. “Again.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but Peggy gave Tony a sultry grin. “No, no, Agent Coulson. Please don’t let me keep you from indulging such pastimes.”

“You,” Tony pointed at Clint, “were supposed to discourage any more talk about electric shocks!”

Clint shrugged. “Sorry man. He loves that thing.”

“He’d probably be more successful arguing your case if he didn’t happen to enjoy the pain.”

Tony squawked, covering his ears. “TMI! TMI!”

“Peggy!” Steve called, nearly falling from the elevator. “Hey! Hi, hi.” He blushed, finally making his way over and taking her hand. “Hi. These, um, these are my…”

“Future abductors,” she finished, kissing his uninjured cheek lightly.

“Hey,” Clint objected. “If he doesn’t fight, it’s not illegal.” Phil cleared his throat. “Okay, fine, technically—“

“Technically, I should file harassment paperwork on both of you,” Peggy cut in, voice vicious and firm. “Fortunately for you, Steve thinks of you as friends.” She took Steve’s hand and carefully led him towards the elevator out. “Besides,” she smirked, pausing at the edge of the cubicles, “I’ll bet that won’t nearly be as frightening as whatever Agent Coulson has planned.”

Both agents watched her lead Steve away, then as one turned to Phil. Phil turned out his desk light and met their stares head-on.

Tony pointed over his shoulder. “You know, I was running some tests on-“

“Sit.” Clint immediately snagged a chair and sat down. Tony opened his mouth to protest. “Sit down,” Phil repeated. This time, Tony listened. “Strippers? Jello?” He eyed the both of them.

Clint smiled weakly. “Stag nights. Can’t live with ‘em-“

“Seriously, you can’t. I’ve tried,” Tony interrupted.

Shaking his head, Phil stood, walked around his desk to behind the two chairs, and slapped both agents on the back of the head.

**Author's Note:**

> A major shout-out to my two beta readers: Lavvyan and Never_says_die. Without either of you, this wouldn't be as strong, or as amazing a story as it's turned out. Thank you for all your hard work. 
> 
> Another thank you to Marvel Universe Big Bang, who, without their organizers, I may never have gotten this fic up, running, and finished! Bravo!
> 
> Naturally, I do not own Marvel Comics, their Cinematic Universe, or NCIS. This has all been an unpaid effort for everyone's enjoyment. No infringement of actual copyright is intended.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for Hammer & Skull](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009680) by [SevenCorvus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevenCorvus/pseuds/SevenCorvus)




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